Prodigal Son
by Rob1
Summary: If 'Transcendence' had happened very differently, this might have been the result. Ian-centric, with Irons, Sara and OC.
1. Default Chapter

Author's note: This is my first stab at this fandom. I find Nottingham too fascinating to resist. Critique is always welcome.   
  


Chapter 1   
  


Flames, flickering in the fireplace. The blade, alive in his hands. His master, a look of wry amusement on his face. Everything is familiar. Everything is right. And none of it matters because She infects his thoughts, and her presence tears his world to shreds.   
  


"How dramatic." Irons waves a dismissive hand, unconcerned by the shining steel he wields. The old man knows him too well. But then, a father always knows his son.   
  


"It is written no man can serve two masters. I thought I could prove the exception. I was mistaken."   
  


"And now you agonize between your devotion to me and your passion for Sara Pezzini."   
  


Sinking to his knees, he bows his head and holds out the blade. He can already taste the futility of his quest, sense his failure reflected back at him by cold blue eyes. Perhaps, just this once, Irons will be merciful. Perhaps tomorrow, the sun won't rise.   
  


"You gave me life. It's yours to take back. I would consider it a mercy." Begging doesn't suit him, but honor is something he no longer lays claim to. He's betrayed them both. The only two that matter, and he's betrayed them both. Irons looks down on him as if he were a stranger, some random acquaintance from a distant unpleasant past. It's the answer he expected.   
  


"If you don't, I shall." He lifts his head, and it is almost a threat. Almost a rebellion. Almost- but not quite.   
  


"I am not a merciful man, Ian." Irons rises from his seat, his jaw clenched, his knuckles whitening as he grips his cane tight.   
  


The rebellion is squelched before it has a chance to begin. Eyes drop and he awaits the fall of the blow. What he receives in its place is much, much worse. Gentle fingers, tilting his head up. Forcing eye contact. Demanding his obedience.   
  


"I own you, Ian. Never forget that. You do not die without my permission. You haven't earned the right."   
  


Those cool fingers weave through his hair, yanking his head back until he struggles to draw breath. Whispered words echo in his ear, speaking the thoughts that he has tried so hard to avoid. "What makes you think she would have you, Ian? What makes you think you are worthy? You want your freedom? You won't like it, I promise you. But if it is sacrifice you wish for...."   
  


Knocking the sword from his hands, Irons stalks away. Still kneeling on the floor, Ian glances guiltily at the blade, then glances away. Please, just let this be a beating.   
  


"It is also written, 'As for this worthless slave, throw him out into the darkness where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth.' If that is the fate that you desire, then it is the fate you shall have. Be gone, Ian. Your darkness awaits, and it will not be found in the blessing of oblivion. I forbid you your death."   
  


****************   
  


The rain was still falling, the alley still reeked of piss, and New York was still a long, long way away. Jumping lightly from the second floor ledge, Ian felt muscles twinge as he landed. How long had he been crouching there, lost in the past? Too long for comfort, not long enough to forget.   
  


Tugging his sodden jacket more tightly about his shoulders, he returned to his patrol. There was no particular rhyme or reason to his wanderings, but trouble seemed to have a way of finding him. Such small blessings were sometimes the best kind.   
  


Absently, he jammed a hand into his pocket, riffling through the wad of cash. It was a reluctant donation from a neighborhood drug dealer, and would buy him a night indoors. Maybe even a hotel with a shower. A shower would be nice. What could be nicer still was wrapped in cellophane, and had been a 'gift' from the same dealer. The white rock might make him forget- or make him not care that he remembered. He swallowed convulsively at the thought, and dumped the baggy in the first trashcan he came to. There was only so much temptation he could take.   
  


He stalked through deserted streets, the feeble rays of moonlight that made their way past the tall buildings telling him it was well after midnight. He should find a place to sleep. Someplace dry. Instead, he walked on. Something interesting was up ahead. Something ugly. He smiled in anticipation, loosened his knife in its sheath. Violence would be much better than drugs. That much, he was sure of.   
  


**********************   
  


"Cough up the ring. Come on! Come on! I will blow your fucking head off, I swear to God!"   
  


Gritting his teeth, Robert Jameson fought the urge to throw a punch. They already had his wallet and his keys. He had a wife to think of. Children who needed him. A band of gold wasn't worth his life. At least, that's what he tried to tell himself, but his hand clenched tight shut, and he knew there was no way they were taking his wedding ring without killing him first.   
  


"It's not worth anything," Robert said, keeping his voice even. "Thirty bucks at the most at a pawn shop. It's not worth it."   
  


"It's worth it to me," the one with the gun hissed back, his finger cocking the trigger on the snub-nosed 38.   
  


"I could cut it off?" Waving a switchblade in the air, the lanky blond on Robert's left side gave a chuckle that was not quite sane.   
  


Robert's mouth went dry, an old familiar dread curling in his stomach. He wasn't going to leave here alive. Not unless he were very, very lucky. He shifted slightly, turning toward the one with the knife. If he moved fast enough....   
  


He started to lash out, take what little chance he had. Before thought could be put into action, the blond's eyes grew round and wide. The man's feet left the ground, his hands clutching at his chest. Dull metal showed between splayed fingers, and then chaos struck.   
  


The blond's body leapt through the air, crashing into his stunned partner. Robert was slammed back against his car, a shadowed form brushing him aside.   
  


Tearing flesh, the glint of a darkened blade, the crack of bone. And it was done.   
  


Adrenalin surged impotently now, and Robert wondered if he should be grateful or afraid. His good Samaritan rose to his feet, features hard to make out in the dim lights of the parking lot. Black. Lots and lots of black. Black clothes, black boots, black hair and beard. Put him in a shadow and the man would disappear. Robert doubted it was a fashion statement. He'd known enough men like this to recognize a warrior when he saw one.   
  


"Thanks," he said, his voice still gruff with fear and anger.   
  


Cocking his head, the man in black hesitated. "My pleasure," he finally replied, baring even white teeth in a grin that showed he meant it.   
  


Robert felt the fear curl in his belly, but shrugged it off. "Robert Jameson," he said, stepping forward and holding out his hand. "I do believe I owe you my life."   
  


Again the cocked head, the sense of hesitation. Finally, a black-gloved hand met his grip. "Ian. And you owe me nothing."   
  


"I disagree, but I won't argue the point. Once the cops get all of this sorted out, I'd be more than happy to buy you a drink, though."   
  


With a shake of his head, Ian took a step back. "I'm afraid I must be going. I'm sure you can handle the authorities on your own."   
  


"Gotta get home, huh?" Robert replied. "You have a home to get to?"   
  


Almost self-consciously, Ian pulled his coat closed, hiding his worn attire and the way it hung loosely on his body. "Not any more," he said, spinning on his heel.   
  


"Ian, wait!" It was an order, the tone of command clear. It pulled Ian up short like nothing else could have. "What were you? Rangers? Seals?"   
  


"What were you?" Ian replied, scowling over his shoulder.   
  


Robert smiled ruefully. "Air force. A pilot. I never even got my feet dirty."   
  


Ian chewed on that for a moment and then nodded. "Special Ops. We lived in the dirt."   
  


"Special Ops? I should have guessed. How long you been out?"   
  


"Forever. Maybe a month. Somewhere in between."   
  


Staring at the tall man's back, Robert took in the matted hair, the water-logged clothes. What the hell, he'd made reckless offers before. His instincts were usually sound. "What do you do now?"   
  


Grudgingly, Ian turned, his eyes darting toward the bodies on the ground. "Nothing important."   
  


"If you're looking for a job, I could use a good man at my company. Most of the guys are ex-servicemen. You'd fit right in."   
  


"A job?"   
  


"Yea, a job. You know- work, a paycheck, nine-to-five sorta thing." Grinning, Robert took a little pleasure in the confusion he saw on Ian's face.   
  


"Who do you want me to kill?"   
  


"I'll make a list," he laughed. Ian didn't seem to get the joke, and Robert's faith in his intuition took a sudden nose-dive.   
  


"Ian, seriously. I own Am-Tech Air. It's a multi-million dollar company. If you want a job, it's yours. Just show up at my office on Monday. I'll have my secretary buzz you through."   
  


"A job," Ian repeated, as if it were a new concept he was trying hard to grasp. "A job might be good."   
  


"Then I'll see you Monday?"   
  


Nodding, Ian said, "Maybe.... But Mr. Jameson- I'd be very displeased if there were police officers waiting for me when I show up."   
  


"I have a feeling that you are not a man I'd want 'displeased'. Don't worry, Ian. No police. Just a job. I owe you that much."   
  


"You owe me nothing."   
  


"I won't if you take the job. So, Monday it is? What name should I give my secretary?"   
  


Ian's head snapped up, he seemed to scent the wind. Turning, he began to trot back toward the alleyway. "Smith," he called over his shoulder. "Ian Smith."   
  


As the distant sound of sirens began to echo across the deserted parking lot, Robert couldn't help but laugh. "Smith. Of course. God- I am so going to regret this." 


	2. Ch. 2

Author's note: Wow!  Thanks for all the kind comments on the first chapter.  The warm welcome inspired me to get my butt in gear on the second one.  It also inspired much guilt, as I suck at feedback- especially on unfinished stories.  I shall try to rectify that tonight.  There are more than a few stories here that I find deeply intriguing

Chapter 2.

Ian sat cross-legged on the bed, mechanically shoveling steamed rice into his mouth.  He'd made a conscious effort to find some real food, not because he cared, but because he knew Irons would be angry with him.  He'd lost weight and he'd had none to spare.  With a frustrated sigh, he grabbed a short-rib and stripped the meat from the bone.  He needed the protein, whether he wanted it or not.

Black and white images flickered on the TV screen.  The sound was off, only the roar of the trucks outside disturbing the silence.  He didn't need sound, he'd seen this movie a hundred times before.  It had been one of the old man's favorite.  Curious, given that Irons more resembled the villain than the hero.  Then again, not so curious afterall.

The camera panned across an opulent room.  Fine furnishings, rich fabrics.  The portrait of a beautiful woman.  He could relate to the setting.  He could also hear the music swell inside his head, a narrator's voice setting the stage.

_"I shall never forget the weekend Laura died. A silver sun burned through the sky like a huge magnifying glass. It was the hottest Sunday in my recollection. I felt as if I were the only human being left in New York. For Laura's horrible death, I was alone."_

If he concentrated on the voice, he could almost believe he was home.  The fire, crackling inside the grate.  The lights, turned down low.  He'd lean back against his master's legs, receive an occasional absentminded stroke from his hand.  That he vied with the dogs for attention was somewhat pathetic, but he didn't care because he always won.

Grunting in irritation, he tossed the empty cartons in the trash.  Settling back down on the bed, Ian wrapped his arms around his legs, rested his chin on his knees.  This was his favorite scene. 

Resurrection.  Rebirth.  The look on the hero's face when spirit was once more made flesh. 

_If anything should happen to you this time, I wouldn't like it._

Good movie.  

He wondered if Irons were somewhere far away, watching the same shifting images.  Would Sara like it?  Probably not.  Nothing exploded.

_I don't deny that he's infatuated with you in some warped way of his own. But he isn't capable of any normal, warm, human relationship. He's been dealing with criminals too long. When you were unattainable, when he thought you were dead, that's when he wanted you most._

Don't believe it, Laura.  Men consorted with ghosts only when there were no other options.  Laura was wise enough to recognize that truth.  Was Sara?  Moot point, as his lady didn't care who he consorted with as long as it wasn't her.

At least the movie would give him a happy ending.  Staring at the screen, he indulged in the fantasy.

_And thus, as history has proved, Love is Eternal. It has been the strongest motivation for human actions throughout centuries. Love is stronger than Life. It reaches beyond the dark shadow of Death. I close this evening's broadcast with some favorite lines...Brief Life - They are not long, the weeping and the laughter, love and desire and hate. I think they have no portion in us after we pass the gate...They are not long, the days of wine and roses. Out of a misty dream, our path emerges for a while, then closes within a dream._

Smiling self-consciously, he flipped the television off and stretched out on the bed.  Three hours before he'd have the excuse of needing to get ready for his new job.  He'd meditate until then.  Sleep was to be avoided.  It brought the dreams, and they were something he could do without.

Gazing up at the ceiling, he was harshly reminded that sleep was not required for his dreams.  

******************

_Sara whirls in place, the blade engulfing her arm.  A flash of recognition, and the witchblade retreats, giving him momentary cause for hope.  The moment doesn't last long._

_He can read her eyes.  Fear.  Disdain.  _

_WretchedPsychoCrazyBastard._

_Freak._

_"Lady Sara," he says, bowing his head.  She walks towards him and his throat tightens, the blood pounding in his ears in time with her footsteps.    "You need protection, but not from me."_

_"Didn't your mother ever teach you not to sneak up on people?"_

_His head swings up, their eyes locking.  "My mother. Strangely silent in all matters of import."_

_"What are you doing here, Nottingham?"   _

_Flesh and blood, My Lady.  Flesh and blood.  But that's not the answer she wants.  "I'm saying good-bye to you, Sara."  _

_Wrapping one hand around the witchblade, she covers the suddenly pulsing eye of the jewel.  "Why? Where are you going?"_

_"Does it matter?"  _

_She doesn't answer.  It's answer enough.  He steps closer and she draws up, as tightly stretched as a bo string.  So beautiful.  Every lifetime, she is so beautiful.  Falling to his knees, he holds up a hand, asks for one last touch.  Child of an indifferent god, he is willing to wait forever for this one boon.  To his surprise, he doesn't have to._

_"Nottingham...."_

_The heat of her flesh burns through the thin leather of his glove, and the glowing jewel welcomes him home.  He touches his lips to the eye of the blade and swears an oath that this time, things will be different.   The amber light deepens to the blue-black of blood.  Mocking him or agreeing with him, it is impossible to tell._

_"You must leave quickly, Sara."  Reluctantly releasing her hand, he rises to his feet.  "The Witchblade confirms the danger."_

_"You can't just walk in here, dump this load of crap on me, and then tell me to get lost, Nottingham.  It doesn't work that way.  Besides, you aren't going anywhere.  You're still wanted for questioning in the Parsegian murder."_

_He shrugs, already striding toward the center of the big room.  "As you well know, if you wish me to remain close, you have only to ask.  But for now, Lady Sara, you must go."_

_"Nottingham...."_

_Anger overrides the fear.  He will not lose them both.  He will not lose her.  "Go now!"  She shrinks back from the fury in his glance, and it feeds the rage that screams in his blood.    _

_The heavy tread of booted men drowns out the sounds of her retreat.  He takes a deep breath, tries to find his center.  He doesn't want to center- he wants to build a fucking shrine to her from the bones of their dead bodies.  The acid burn of the rage reminds him that anger is an emotion too.  _

**I forbid you your death.**

_"Captain Dante.  It is truly a pleasure to see you again." _

_"Where is she? Where's Sara Pezzini?"  _

_The officers fill the room, their guns drawn, their expressions expectant.  Out in full force, the only one missing is Jake.  _

_Ian sighs, contemplating the question, watching them from the corner of his eye.  At length he finds an answer he likes.  "She graces the intersection of primal cause and pervasive entropy."_

_"What? Listen, freak. Now, I don't give a damn what Irons wants. She's here, or you wouldn't be.  Now you tell me where she is or get the hell out of my way."_

_That this peasant threatens the wielder is a sacrilege he will allow no longer.   Ian grins as the officers spread out around him.  More than enough bodies to build a shrine.  "I believe there's a third option."_

_"What's that?" Dante snarls, his impatience evident._

_"Don't worry, Dante.  I intend to kill you last."_

_The thunder of his guns splits the air long before the threat can register.  They had half-expected it, but they are still far too slow.  Nottingham rolls, the answering volley chipping the stone floor behind him.  _

_Bodies drop.  Some dead.  Some returning fire.  He curls his legs beneath him, rises like an unholy angel.  A startled face, panic blossoming as he takes the man's shotgun.  The face disintegrates, and he holds the limp form before him.  He can feel the impact of the bullets, blasting his human shield to pulp.  _

_Blood mists the air, screams ringing out as he empties the riot gun.  The fusillade slackens, random shots, poorly aimed.  Fear makes their hands shake, their resolve crumble.  The cattle start stampeding for the door.  Cowards all.  No one here gets out alive._

_His weapons spent, he tosses the bloody remains of his new friend away, the corpse taking down the last man scrambling for the door.  Slamming home a fresh clip, Ian stalks forward.  The occasional bark of the gun marks his passage and dead men litter his wake.  _

_"And then there was one," he intones, watching with a carnivorous grin as Dante fumbles with a speed loader.  Foolish men deserved to die foolish deaths, and Dante was more of a fool than most.  _

_Returning his guns to their holsters, he slips his knife free of its sheath.  He wants to feel Dante's death, and a blade is the only way to do it right._

_Red-face and snarling, Dante slams the cylinder shut, frantically trying to bring  the .45 to bear.  "Fuck off, you son of a bitch!"       _

_Lashing out, Ian sends the gun sliding away.  Inexorably, he backs Dante across the bloody floor.  The anticipation builds in the back of his head, the desire for this kill blinding him to all else._

_"Nottingham, stop it!"_

_Ian's left hand latches onto the bull throat, shoving the policeman against the wall.  "I told you to go," he replies evenly, as his fingers begin to squeeze the life from the sweating body in his grasp._

_"Nottingham, you've done enough.  Let him go!  I need him.  I need the secrets he holds.  There's been enough death!"_

_She's coming up fast behind him, outrage in her voice.  The chilling hiss of metal as the gauntlet forms, but his grip never slackens.  "The blade will agree with me, My Lady.  This abomination can be allowed existence no longer."_

_Dante slumps in his hand, the beat of the pulse beneath his fingers growing weak.  Too easy a death.  Far too easy.  Leaning in close to the dying man's ear, he whispers his curse.  "May yours be the fate of all who challenge the wielder."_

_Her arms wrap around his neck  just as his blade splits the flesh.  One practiced movement, and his work is done.  The witchblade hums loudly in his ear, giddy and exultant.  That it comes to him as a jewel rather than a sword is no surprise.  He is what destiny has forged him to be.  The witchblade would expect no less._

_He allows her to pull him away, watching as Dante's corpse slides down the concrete wall.  The anger slips away with it and his body relaxes, his head falling back to rest in the crook of her shoulder.  For one shining moment, the world makes sense.  _

_"Bastard," she whispers, shoving him away.  Crouching beside Dante, she feels for a pulse.  Dead eyes watch the futile gesture._

_"You're welcome," Ian mutters bitterly, surveying the carnage that surrounds them.  _

_"You didn't have to do this."  She rests her head in her hands, long hair falling forward to shield her face.  If he didn't know better, he'd think she was crying._

_"They wanted to kill you, Sara.  What did you expect me to do?"_

_She whirls on him, eyes flashing.  "It didn't have to happen, Ian.  You killed a dozen men!  A dozen cops!" _

_"And I would kill a thousand more to keep you safe!" he thunders back at her, his restraint shattering._

_She stares up at him, her face unreadable.  Whatever reply she might have made is interrupted by the distant whine of sirens.  "Get out, Nottingham.  Go back to your master.  Tell him it was a job well done."_

_His hands curl into fists and he drops his gaze to the ground.  "As you will, My Lady."_

_Halfway to the door, he draws to a halt.  Unable to face her, he directs his words towards the floor between his feet.  "He's dying, you know.  Without your help, he won't last the week."_

_"Who?  Irons?"_

_The sirens draw closer, urging haste.  He's past the point of caring.  "You can save him.  You're the only one who can."_

_"I see," she replies, ice in her tone.  "So that's the deal.  Irons' life in exchange for this... this bloodbath of yours?  Is that your price, Nottingham?! "_

_He shakes his head, glances back.  "Will you never understand?  Sara, you can't buy what you already own.  You have owned me from the start."  _

_It's that look.  The look she gets every time he shows her a piece of his soul.  Bowing his head, he walks away, waiting for her to tell him to stop.  _

******************

He was waiting still.  

With a muffled groan, Ian stumbled into the bathroom, rubbing at tired eyes.  It was almost 6 a.m., not too early to get ready for his new job.  

His face stared disapprovingly back at him from the mirror.  Shadowed eyes.  Unruly beard.  He looked like a vagrant.  A wretched, psycho, crazy, bastard, freak of a vagrant.  Jameson would take one look at him and order him removed from the premises.  

Well, at least he could change the vagrant part.  Picking up a fresh razor, he started trimming away.  

His gods had cast him out.  Perhaps it was time to find a new god.    

**Note- if you're wondering about the movie reference, it's the 1944 flick, 'Laura', directed by Otto Preminger.


	3. Ch. 3

(Author's Note: Thanks again for the feedback, it's making this a heck of a lot of fun. Can't wait until Monday, when I'll actually get to see 'Transcendence' for the first time! Hope you enjoy this chapter, it's a bit different from the first two.)  

Chapter 3  

Ian walked up to the secretary's desk at exactly 8 a.m.  Jameson hadn't set a time for their meeting, so he'd settled for arriving at the beginning of the normal work day.  He knew what 'normal' was, even if he'd never lived it himself.  

Keeping his face carefully devoid of expression, he gave his name and waited to be summoned.  Uneasily, he wondered if this had been his first test.  Irons would have expected him to know precisely when and where he was supposed to be- without the words being said.  Of course, if this were one of Irons' tests, he would have already failed. 

6:00 a.m. sharp he was to be ready and waiting outside the old man's bedroom door.  Most days, he'd fall in behind Irons at 6:30 and they would proceed to the dinning room.  Other days, Ian would be left standing for hours as Irons recovered from the excesses of the night before.  Either way, it didn't matter.  Ian was to be present when Irons awoke and he would stand watch until Irons dismissed him.  

Taking a deep breath, he tried to slow his pounding heart.  He should have gone to Jameson's house, been waiting for him when he emerged.  His thoughtlessness was sure to cost him, the only question was how much.

The secretary's voice jarred him from his thoughts.  Before he could change his mind, he strode into Jameson's office and took up his customary stance.  His hands locked behind his back, he kept his head bowed, his eyes fixed on the shiny desktop in front of him.

"Mr. Ian Smith.  I was hoping you'd show up."

Uncertain if a response was required, Ian kept his mouth shut.  At least Jameson didn't sound angry.

"Ian?"

His eyes flicked up.  "Sir?"

"Relax.  If anyone here should be nervous, it's me.  Do you have any idea how riled up the police are over that little incident the other night?"

Shifting slightly, Ian made certain his 9 mm was within easy reach.  It didn't feel like a trap, but that didn't mean it wasn't.

The creak of a leather chair, the sound of footsteps as Jameson circled his desk.  Ian tensed, still unclear on whether he was in service to this man.  If this was a betrayal, should he accept it as his due or make certain he drew first blood?  

Jameson stopped in front of him and leaned casually back against the desk.  It gave him room to breathe, a fact for which he was grateful.

"You weren't this shy Friday night.  Come on, kid.  Talk to me."

He swallowed, took the risk of raising his head.  "What did you tell the police?"

Jameson laughed, an easy, unthreatening sound.  "Is that what's got you wound so tight?  Don't worry, the cops don't know anything about you.  All I told them was some big guy came out of the shadows, saved my butt and ran off.  It happened so quick, I never even got a look at his face.  They weren't happy with the story, but forensics backed me up."

"Thank you," he replied, his head dropping, the tension easing.

"Enough with the humility, it doesn't suit a pitbull.  Jeesh, Ian.  The other night, the man with the gun- you didn't just break his neck, you crushed it.  Literally.  And the other one...  Did you realize you rammed the knife into his back so hard that it came out through the other side?  Broke the breastbone, tore the cartilage.  According to the cops, the M.E.'s are still trying to gauge the amount of force it would take to inflict that kind of damage.  I hear they managed to reproduce the effect, but it took a pickax to do it."

Was Jameson pleased or disappointed?  He couldn't tell.  "I'll be more circumspect in the future, sir."

"Um, I'm kind of hoping the future won't involve you shoving knives through people's chests.  Let's try to keep the corpses to a minimum, shall we?"

He couldn't get a read on what Jameson wanted from him.  If it were Irons, the message would be clear- dump all bodies in the river and make sure they never floated to the surface.  Jameson was more obscure.  Ian simply nodded, deciding not to kill anyone unless directly ordered to do so.

Jameson sighed and reached back to grab a clipboard from his desk.  Ian sensed he was irritating the man in some way.  He felt awkward and uncertain, a new experience and one he did not enjoy. 

"Ian, take a seat and stop staring at the carpet.  You're here for a job, not an inquisition.  I just have to get some basic info and you'll be squared away.  The police aren't going to show up, you've got the job, and I'm not expecting you to be an expert in corporate security.  Okay?"

Settling down on the edge of the nearest chair, Ian made an effort to keep his head up.  Years of training forced it back down.  "Corporate security?"

"Yea, I was thinking you might make a good addition to my security team.  It's a pretty big operation.  Not only do the guys cover the charter flights, our R and D department does a lot of work for the military.  That means we need tight security.  My old Master Sergeant runs the department.  I figured you'd feel right at home working under him.  How does that kind of thing sound to you?"

"I have experience in the area.  It shouldn't be a problem, sir."  Back on familiar ground.  This was more like it.

"Experience."  Jameson chuckled.  "I have a feeling that's an understatement.  However, there may be one small glitch.  If I hire you through the company, you'll have to pass a basic background check- and that includes fingerprints.  There's no way around it.  Think you can do that?"

Ian nodded.  "Yes sir.  I know the system, it won't be an issue."

"Even using the name, 'Smith'?"

Jameson was underestimating him.  Allowing himself a smile, he said, "I can use a different name if you prefer."

Scribbling away with his pen, Jameson replied, "Why don't we stick with Smith.  It's easy to remember.  You do have a social security number to go with the name?"  

"No sir."

Jameson paused, looking up from the clipboard.  "Ian, you're going to have to have a social security number to pass the background check."

"I'll have one by tomorrow."

"Okay....  Let's just get a little more information, then.  Personnel demands paperwork, even when the hire is a done deal.  What should I put for a home address?"

"I...."

"Don't have one," Jameson finished for him.  The older man raised his hand and began rubbing at the back of his neck as his eyes ran down the checklist on the job application.  "No phone either...  Ah.  Here's an easy one.  You need a recommendation.  I'm writing that part, so all you need to do is give me a few little details I can work in.  I would just note you'd saved my ass, but I think it might be best to avoid putting those specifics into print.  How about it, Ian.  Were you a boy scout when you were a kid?  High School sports?  Glee club?  Do you volunteer at soup kitchens in your spare time?"

The look Ian shot him would have earned a slap from Irons.  Jameson merely laughed.  "Come on, Ian.  Give me something to work with here.  What was the last virtuous thing you did?"

Virtuous?  He hadn't been virtuous since he'd taken his first breath.  Was it a trick question?

"Ian?"

"I took a cab to work this morning."

"See.  That wasn't so hard....  You what?"

"I took a cab instead of borrowing a car."

"Well, yea, I guess that is laudable."  Jameson's trailed off, sounding dubious.  "So who were you going to borrow the car from?"

"I don't know.  Preferably someone with a Mercedes."

Jameson groaned and dropped the clipboard onto the desk.  "Ian, look at me.  Please?"

Reluctantly, he complied, receiving a wane smile for his effort.  

"Son, you aren't helping.  'Ian didn't steal a car on Monday,' isn't really the sort of recommendation that goes over well with the personnel department.  Why don't you just head on down to security and I'll have Frank put you to work now.   Leave the paperwork to me.  I'm sure I can come up with something innocuous to fill in the blanks.  Once you get a social security card, we'll put the application through and I'll have it expedited.  Until then, I'll pay you out of my own pocket.  Sound okay to you?"

Rising immediately to his feet, Ian was prepared to make his escape when Jameson stopped him with an outstretched hand.

"Mr. Smith- it's good to have you aboard."

Instinct told him to drop to one knee, but that would be wrong in more ways than he cared count.  Instead, he met Jameson's grip with a strong one of his own.  "Mr. Jameson, I won't disappoint you."

*************

Damn.  It was already after five o'clock.  If he was late getting home again, Susan was going to kill him.  Dropping his pen, Robert shook the stiffness from his fingers and warily contemplated the phone.  He should talk to Frank before he left, see if there were any disasters in need of cleaning up.  

Hitting a button on the speaker phone, he made a bet with himself regarding Frank's reaction to his new charge.  There was no doubt that he would find flaw.  The ex-sergeant found flaw with every man under his watch.  The only debate was what the flaw might be.  The hair.  He was going to have to bet on the hair.  Frank had a major issue with long hair on a man.  Grinning to himself, Robert waited for the phone to pick-up.  When it came right down to it, he was rather looking forward to a rant on the evils of 'girlie looking men'.  Might humanized Ian a bit, dispel the sense of menace he seemed to associate with the man.  He really hoped things were going to be that simple.

"Yeah, Boswell here.  What do you want?"

"Frank.  How're things hanging down there in the bowels of hell?"

"Hey, boss.  I was wondering if you'd check in.  What's up with this freak'n psycho you sent me?  The guy damn near killed me!"

Robert gave vent to a silent groan, praying that nobody had lost any body parts.  "Ok, Frank.  What'd he do?"

"He about gave me a heart attack three different times now.  Guy's always lurking in the shadows where you can't see him, popping out when you least expect it, staring at you like he's considering ripping your face off if you answer a question the wrong way.  You notice those gloves?  It's like he's making sure there won't be any fingerprints left at the murder scene.  Jesus H. Christ, Bobbie, this keeps up, I'm gonna have to start wearing Depends.  I am waaaay too old for this shit.  We got flourescent lights down here.  How the hell do you lurk in shadows under freak'n flourescent lights?  It ain't natural, I swear to God.  And another thing...."

"Frank, please shut up!"  Rubbing his fingers against the bridge of his nose, Robert used the moment of silence to once again reflect on the dubious wisdom of hiring one's former Master Sergeant as your head of security.  Of course, on the plus side of things, it appeared that no one had actually died.  Yet.

"You still there?"

"Yea, Frank.  I'm still here.  So, aside from your incontinence issues, how's he working out?  Does he know his stuff?  I'm pretty sure he was Special Ops., so you should be able to find something for him to do.  The guy saved my life, Frank.  I owe him one."

"Well....  He's got that long-assed girlie hair, but he's not a complete moron."

From Frank, the grudging admission was high praise indeed.  It looked like his instincts had been right again.  "What'd you put him to work on?"

"I asked him what his specialty was, and he said 'Security'.  So I says, 'What kinda security?' and he says, 'All kinds of security.'.  So, I know he's full of shit, because nobody is an expert in EVERYTHING.  So anyways, I'm kinda fuck'n with him.  Figured I'd have him do a systems check of our computer network.  Look for possible security holes.  Now, there ain't no security holes.  Hell, we just payed 200 grand to install the new system.  But like I say, I was fuck'n with him.  You know those jock types, wouldn't recognize a motherboard if you shoved it up their ass.  So, he...." 

"Frank, does this story have a point in it somewhere?"  Robert could feel the beginnings of a headache blossoming behind his eyes.  Talking to his ex-sergeant without the benefits of liberal doses of alcohol frequently had that effect on him.

"Um, yea.  The point is, he's working on network security right now."

"And is he any good at it?"

"He doesn't suck."

"Care to elaborate?"

"Well, that 200 grand we spent for the new system?  I think maybe you should ask for your money back.  According to your new protégé, any three year old with a Playtell phone and a booger-free finger could hack it."

"He actually said that?"

"Of course not.  Few people have my way with words.  But if you want the dry, boring version, he said, 'The firewall is rudimentary at best, the cryptography is linear and non-recursive, and the fiber optics cable that connects to the servers renders the entire system vulnerable.'  I didn't understand a damn word of it, but I figured it sounded bad."

"Sounds bad to me too, and I don't have a clue what it means either.  Think he's just blowing smoke?"

"Nope, not really."

"Wow, what brought on this show of confidence?"

"You know how we have to run a basic security check to meet FAA and DOD regulations?  You told the kid he had to get a social security card.  Well, he's got one now.  Wanna know how he did it so quick?"

"The suspense is killing me."

"He hacked into the social security mainframe and generated a new identity.  Now, I may not know a lot about computer security, but I'm pretty sure that sorta thing requires a pro."

Robert whistled through his teeth.  "Yea, Frank.  I'd say that would require some skill.  How do you know he did it?"

"Aside from my brilliant powers of deduction?  I walked by his desk, asked him what he was doing, and he said, 'I'm hacking into the social security mainframe.  Mr. Jameson ordered me to get a social security card.'."

"Well, at least he's honest," Robert replied, giving a mental shrug.  "Is he still around?"

"Oh yea, he's still in the bullpen, typing away on the computer.  He's probably busy giving himself a permit to carry nuclear weapons in his back pocket or something.  I guess I should be happy that if we ever get the urge to take over any small countries, we'll have the manpower to do it."

Robert chuckled and made one of his snap decisions.  "Send the kid up, I'm gonna take him home to meet the family."

"Oh, Susan's gonna love you for this one.  Bet the guy eats raw meat with his hands."

"Susan's had you over for dinner enough times that I don't expect anything will phase her.  You do remember the night you puked in her begonias, don't you?"

"No, I don't remotely remember that night, and screw you too.  I'll see you tomorrow- assuming you don't piss him off by picking the wrong wine at dinner and end up a bloated corpse."

"Hey, Frank- hold up.  You don't really think he's dangerous, do you?"

"Hell yea, I think he's dangerous!  If you mean, 'Do I think he's a danger to you?'....  I don't know.  It's your call, Bobbie.  He could be a real asset.  He could also be the last mistake you ever make.  You read me?"

"Loud and clear, Frank.  Loud and clear."


	4. Ch. 4

(Author's note: I guess I'll have to try humor more often!  Glad you enjoyed the last chapter- and to those who noted the appeal of 'innocent Ian'- Loki summed it up nicely.  That is the draw of this character for me- that terrible innocence that can manifest in the most lethal of forms.  A further note- I WILL finish this story- barring death or dismemberment.  I only write on the weekends, so updates may be a little slow.  Figure one chapter per week.  And yes, this one was slow in coming, but it ended up being much longer than my usual.  It also took a kind of perverted turn that I hadn't foreseen- but sometimes stories do that.  I hope you enjoy, this chapter is a bit different.

-PS-- while I'm 'noting', I just read a brilliant WIP on another website.  It's a Highlander x-over called 'Digitabulum Magae'.  I'm not normally a fan of x-overs, but this one is impressive.  Here's a link to the main site- but note, it is slash: http://www.wordsmiths.net/MacGeorge/ . Look under 'Works in Progress'.  )

Chapter 4

"So what do you think of the place?" Robert asked, holding the front door open and motioning Ian inside.

Pausing in the foyer, Ian took in the curving staircases that flanked both sides of the oval entryway, the perfect symmetry drawing his eyes upward to an antique chandelier.  "Antebellum architecture?  It's not what I expected, sir.  Not this far north."

"Yea, well that's what happens when you marry a Southern girl.  Susan wouldn't live in a home without columns.  We searched for almost a year before we found this old relic. It predates the Civil War."  

"So does the security system, sir," Ian replied as he followed Robert into an informal living room to the right of the foyer.

"Ian, did you just make a funny?"

Turning from his inspection of the antique shotgun mounted above the fireplace mantel, Ian linked his hands behind his back and squared his shoulders.  "I'm serious, sir.  The front gate is useful only as a decoration and you have a stock ADT alarm system on the front door that can be disarmed by anyone who buys the manual.  The need for such a manual is a moot point, given the two open windows on the second floor."

"You're always serious, Ian," Robert said, pulling a bottle of bourbon from the dry bar.  "Knock it off.  The security system is there to keep the teenagers from stealing the stereo system when we go out of town on vacation.  It's not meant to repel marauding ninjas." 

Dropping his head, Ian nodded, his acquiescence somehow conveying the message that marauding ninjas were a more likely threat than might commonly be believed.

With a resigned sigh, Robert filled a tumbler to the brim.  "Bourbon or scotch?"

"I don't usually drink sir."

"Guess I don't have to worry about which wine I pick for dinner," Robert muttered philosophically, taking a deep swallow and trying to relax.  "Do you have any vices at all?"

The hint of a smile creased Ian's lips.  "Aside from the occasional homicide?"  

Chuckling, Robert loosened his tie and settled in on the leather couch beside the bar.  "See, I knew you had a sense of humor.  Take a seat and get comfortable.  The kids will be here soon, and all hope of peaceful conversation will die an ugly death."

Somewhat stiffly, Ian joined him on the couch, his head snapping up at the distant sound of car doors slamming.  

"Brace yourself," Robert warned, smiling as the front door burst open.  

The sound of barking dogs and skittering nails was accompanied by the high-pitched shriek of children's voices and the pounding of tiny feet.  Invading armies made less noise.  Ian's hand crept under his jacket, seeking the reassurance of his trusted Glock.  For once, his weapon failed him.  Not even the best in Austrian craftsmanship could hold back this rampaging horde.  

Two English Setters led the way, bee-lining for the strange intruder on their couch.  One step behind them, a small sweaty boy in a white gi yelled out "Dad's home!  Dad's home!  Kiyaaaaa!" before launching himself into the air.  Ian grimaced in silent sympathy as a bony knee drove into Robert's stomach, but the older man didn't seem to mind.  Wrapping the boy in a tight hug, he kissed the top of his damp head.

"Ian, allow me to present the next lord of the manor, Robert Jr.  He's known as 'Bobby' to his friends and as 'The Kung-Fu Master of Death' to his enemies.  Bobbie, say hello to Mr. Smith."

"Hello."  Sticking his hand out, Bobbie flashed an exuberant grin that was an exact match for his father's.  Somewhat bemused, Ian carefully returned the handshake.

"And you've already met my real security team.  That's Lucy and that's Ethel," Robert continued, pointing at the dogs who rubbed against Ian's legs.  "You can see why I'm not too worried about the alarm system."

Ian glanced down and one of the dogs immediately flopped over on her back, begging to have her belly rubbed.  When he ran his fingers over the soft white fur, the dog's legs began kicking away as she squirmed happily at his feet.  Jealous of the attention her sibling was receiving, the other dog poked a cold nose into the side of his face, a sloppy tongue lapping at his ear.  "Yes, they are very... intimidating."

"The Lord be praised, you are actually home on time," a smooth, feminine voice drawled.  Standing in the doorway, a petite woman with dark curly hair and skin the color of honey looked on in amusement.  A little girl clung to her leg, peeking up at Ian as if uncertain he should be there.

"Hey, I'm trained to follow orders," Robert replied.  "Susan, I'd like you to meet Ian Smith, one of my new recruits.

Instantly, Ian rose to his feet.  Arms behind his back, he made a formal bow.  "I am honored."

Her eyes widening in surprise, Susan unleashed a dazzling smile.  "The pleasure is all mine, Ian.  Finally, Robert has hired someone with manners!  Don't let those heathens at the temple of testosterone pervert you, dear."

"No ma'am," he replied, keeping his head respectfully down as she walked past.  

Feeling distinctly out of place, Ian held steady as tiny Adidas clad feet tiptoed into his field of view, advancing until they touched his black boots.  The girl child who belonged to the feet craned her head back, staring directly into his down-turned face. 

"Hello."

"That would be Jenny," Susan said.  "Future breaker of hearts."

"Hello," Ian replied, managing a smile that he hoped didn't look threatening.

"They won't let me spar with the big boys.  Sensei says I have to be at least ten years old.  Do you think that's fair?"

"You're too little, Jenny.  You'd get creamed!"  Bouncing out of his father's lap, Bobbie flopped on the floor next to the dogs.

"I would not!"  Crossing her arms across her chest, Jenny shot Ian a look that dared him to disagree.  It was a look that was strangely familiar, and he wondered if all women had such fiery tempers or only the ones that surrounded him.

Years of experience had taught him that there was only one way to deal with such women- complete and total surrender.  Taking a step back, he went down on one knee before her.  "I believe the loss is entirely theirs, princess."

Jenny beamed at him, then turned around and kicked her brother in the back.  "See, I told you!"

"Mom!"  Bobbie's complaint was cut short as he stormed out of the room, in hot pursuit of his fleeing sibling.

Ian simply crouched there, feeling homesick and not knowing why.  Home had never been remotely like this.  A friendly nose jabbed him in the ear, and he finally rose to his feet, looking to Robert for direction.

"I warned you it was a zoo."  His arm was curled around Susan's waist as she leaned against the side of the couch and it was clear from his expression, he wouldn't have it any other way.

"You will stay for dinner, won't you?  I want to hear all about you, because I tell you now, if you are single, I know some ladies who will be dying to meet you!"   

"I figured we'd put Ian up for the night, if that's okay with you.  He's new in town and hasn't settled in yet," Robert answered for him.

"Plenty of room. Make yourself at home, Ian," Susan replied, tugging herself free from Robert's resisting hands and moving toward the kitchen.  "What is it you do, anyway?"

"Security," Robert and Ian replied, in perfect synchronicity.

Halting in the doorway, Susan shot Robert a withering look.  "You put this sweet boy to work with Frank?  Robert, how could you?"

It was clear that there was no appropriate answer to the question, and Robert gave a helpless shrug.  "It's Ian's fault, honey.  He's the one who's a security specialist."

Her glare suggested forgiveness had yet to be achieved, but without further comment, she disappeared into the back of the house.

Letting out a long sigh, Robert picked up his glass, raising it in mock salute.  "Never fall in love with a woman, Ian.  It's cheaper and less painful to just cut your balls off with a rusty knife."

Turning his attention to the floor, Ian muttered under his breath, "Where were you three thousand years ago?"

*************

"Well, I'd say you met with the family's approval, Ian.  Jenny's got a crush on you, Susan gave you the last piece of pecan pie, and Bobbie thinks you're the next Jet Li."  Opening the bedroom door, Robert flicked on the lights as the two dogs immediately took up residence on the queen-sized bed.

Ian stood just behind Robert's shoulder, silent and watchful.  

"You have no idea who Jet Li is, do you?"

"No sir."

"Ian, seriously, you have to get out more.  You going to be okay bivouacked here tonight?  There's a connecting bath, everything you need should be in it."

"Mr. Jameson, this isn't necessary.  Bringing me here..."  Ian trailed off, tucking his chin against his chest.    

Turning around, Robert put his hand on Ian's shoulder, ignoring it when the man flinched.  "Ian, look at me."

Reluctantly, the man complied.  His dark eyes were intense and dangerous, and  Frank's warning rang in Robert's ears, '...the last mistake you ever make'.

"Every man under Frank's command was in the service.  Every one of them, I would trust with my life.  It's why I assigned you to him, and it didn't have a damned thing to do with your training.  Those boys are family.  Family takes care of its own, Ian.  That's why I brought you to my home.  Do you understand?"

"I understand loyalty, sir," Ian replied, his voice barely above a whisper.  "I don't understand why you chose me."

"You trusted me not to have the police waiting for you this morning.  Why did you do that?"

"I have very little left to lose, Mr. Jameson.  I could afford the risk.  Can you?"

There was an unstated warning behind those words, and Robert felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise.  "I have a lot to protect, Ian.  _That_ is why I chose you."

If he expected a reply, it quickly became evident he wasn't going to get one.  Shaking his head, he dropped his hand from the other man's shoulder.  "Get some sleep, Ian.  We've got work in the morning."

*************

Laying his clothes carefully out on a nearby chair, Ian crawled into the bed.  Grudgingly, the dogs gave way.  Meditation was an impossibility.  He needed a good workout, needed to push himself to the point of exhaustion and beyond.  That wasn't going to happen tonight, so he stared at the ceiling and wondered what Kenneth would say.

Jameson was a fool.  There was no doubt about it.  He had hired him knowing only that he was capable of killing, swiftly and efficiently.  That was fine if all the job entailed was a bit of wet work, a quick payoff, and no last names to complicate things when the authorities came around.  Irons himself had made such arrangements when Ian's schedule had been full.  One did not, however, bring hired killers home for dinner with the wife and kids.  

The silky head of one of the dogs nuzzled against his bare stomach.  He scratched its ears and debated leaving town.  Irons might have died due to his weakness.  Sara might have died.  Neither had, he was sure of that.  It didn't mitigate his failure.  The last thing he wanted was to be responsible for another family.  He hadn't even been loyal to his own.  

He could feel her now, restless in repose.  The witchblade reached out across the miles, wrapping itself around him and pulling him deeper.  He didn't resist, wasn't certain he could if he wanted to.  Tonight, he would be with her in dreams.

He recalled the desert heat, the sun that sucked the moisture from his bones.  Her name had been Devorah, and she had called him down from the hills with a power he could not deny.  A thousand years before the birth of Christ, she had led her people to victory and she had done it without a sword.

The witchblade balked, its anger a palpable force.  This was not a history it had enjoyed.  Breathing deeply, he settled further into the bond, as much a part of Sara as was the blade that joined them.  Let the blade be angry, this would be his gift to her.

His right wrist burned with the promise of future retribution, but he concentrated on the dry wind against his face and the white sand below his horse's hooves....

_His mount shifts beneath him, made restive by the cool morning air.  With an absentminded touch, he gentles the horse, his gaze still fixed on the woman beside him. "Jabin's chariots will tear through our ranks, Devorah.  There is no hope of victory here."_

_"Do you doubt the word of God?  He sent you to me, lightening bearer.  Do not allow your faith to waver now."_

_Her green eyes continue to stare out across the Jezreel Valley.  Placid and calm, she is immune to the concerns of the flesh.  He is not.  "I did not come here for God, Prophetess.  I came here for you."_

_Fear flashes in the depths of those eyes and she puts a hand to his lips, intent on silencing him.  "Your heresy will be punished."_

_He burns at the touch, the need for her searing his veins.  Grabbing her wrist, he draws her close, feels the jewel pulsing against his palm.  Its rage pours into him, sharing with the deliverer what its wielder refuses to hear.  "Is this not punishment enough?" _

_"I belong to God, Barak.  It cannot be."_

_The sadness in her tone is bitter comfort, paling beside the steel in her words.  Releasing her hand, he nudges his horse away.  It is as futile as trying to escape the sun- the heat might lessen, but it is ever there.  Bowing his head, he can only nod in submission.  "I will ready the men.  We await your command."_

_"Barak, the rains will come.  The Canaanites will fall.  It has been foretold."_

_Pausing, he looks down at the valley floor.  The sand is cracked and hardened, already beginning to bake beneath a cloudless sky.  "It matters not, my lady.  Your will shall be done."  _

*************__

_Red clay mud cakes his sandaled feet, the blood of his enemies staining his armor to black.  He plunges his sword into the sand outside the entrance of her tent.  His very presence defiles her, but to bring weapons into her house is profanity he can easily avoid._

_Entering the tent without asking, he ignores the servants as they shy away in fear.  She awaits, ethereal and untouchable.  Falling to his knees, he locks his hands behind his back,  wise enough not to trust himself in her presence.  She is not so wise.  His eyes betray his will, and he watchs with unbridled admiration as she comes to him.  _

_The white silk gown flows over her curves, luminous in the light of the torches.  The olive skin of her bare arms gleams like beaten copper, hair as black as midnight cascading down her back in one thick braid.  She is unadorned but for the golden cord around her waist and the bracelet that encircles her wrist.  Chaste.  Pure.  Invoilate.  She wears her faith like a shield and he curses the God who would keep them apart. _

_"Arise, Barak.  It is I who should pay you homage.  The Cannanites are defeated?"_

_He stays where he is, dropping his eyes and nodding.  "It was as you foretold.  The rains poured from the heavens and the chariots were trapped in the mire.  It was a slaughter.  Ten thousand or more lay dead on the sand."_

_"And Jabin?"  If the death toll bothers her, it doesn't show in her voice._

_"Jabin is dead, Prophetess.  My only regret is that it was not by my hand."_

_"Have no regrets, Barak.  You are a true and faithful servant of God."  She says the words fondly, ruffles his hair as one would a young child or a particularly faithful dog.  The jewel flares to life, the touch of skin on skin stoking its fires._

_She pauses and he can read the visions as they shift behind green eyes.  Bodies, writhing before the firelight.  Fevered flesh and frenzied screams as they merge.  An unholy trio, consummating a union that needs no god.  They will purge the land in a sea of blood and nothing will stand before them._

_Her breathing quickens, her fingers trailing across his cheek.  Brushing back a lock of hair from his face, she gazes into his eyes with a passion that matches his own.  _

_It is all the encouragement he needs.  His calloused fingers catch her hand, his thumb rubbing against her palm.  With infinite slowness, he presses dry lips to the back of her hand, waiting for her inevitable rejection.  Instead, she pulls him to his feet, nestles her head against his armored chest._

_"This is wrong, my love.  This is not what God intends."  Her arms pull him tight, giving lie to her words._

_With gentle hands, he tilts her head to face him.  "What do you intend?"   _

_She hesitates, amber fire flickering behind the green ice of her eyes.  "Not this," she whispers, and for the first time, it is a request and not a command._

_Honey and sweet wine.  She will taste of honey and sweet wine, and once he takes her, they will never be apart.  Drawing a ragged breath, he pulls away.  "As you will, my lady.  I must see to my men."_

_The stone on her wrist screams in frustration, its need twisting inside his mind, making him the weapon that it longs to be.  Gritting his teeth, he endures the violation.  If this is the only way he can be bound to her, then so be it._

The pain in his arm streaked white-hot, blotting out the desert sun.  Chewing on the inside of his lip, he held back a moan of pain and waited for Sara's slumber to deepen.  

Devorah.  For a hundred and twenty years, she had led the children of Israel, and in that time, she  had never taken a life.  She had never needed to, for he had stood at her side.  

When he carried her body from her deathbed, she had been as beautiful as the day her first saw her.  It was the last time he had touched her in that life.  It had been the first time he touched her in a hundred years.  

He had ridden into the mountains and waited for God to take him too.  

It had been a very long wait.

The witchblade hissed in his ear, no more pleased by the memory than he was.  He ignored it, just as he ignored the fire that pulsed through the veins of his arm and the need that tightened his groin.  Pushing the dogs away from his sweating body, he headed for the bathroom.  Mocking laughter followed him.  He ignored that too.

Resting, his forearms against the cool tile of the shower stall, Ian cranked the icy spray to full blast.  It wouldn't numb his mind, but it might numb his body.  He'd take what comfort he could get.

Stifling a groan, he acknowledged his folly even as his body began to shake.  There was only one thing that could take away this incessant, inescapable ache and she was forever beyond his reach.

_"You seek to reject me, and then lay the blame for your betrayal at my feet?  Your hubris knows no bounds, Paladin."  Sara's voice, sibilant and seductive and very, very dangerous.  _

_Shuddering, he clenches his eyes tight shut.  If he doesn't look, maybe it will go away.  "Get out of my head," he whispers._

_Soft laughter echoes from the walls, her warm breath teasing across the bare skin of his shoulder.  "Not in this lifetime or the next.  When the earth is nothing more than a burned out cinder circling a dying sun, we will stand together on the barren plains and curse the coming darkness.  It is your fate, my love.  Embrace it.  Embrace me."_

_Silver-tipped nails scrape across his ribs, twisting his unresisting body around.  Her left hand pins his arms above his head, while metal clad fingers brush lightly across his closed eyelids.  With exquisite patience, her body presses against him, the heat she radiates all consuming.  _

_"Sara doesn't want this," he croaks, the words sticking in his throat.  "Neither do I."_

_He can feel the purr of her laughter, and swallows hard as she drops her free hand to his groin.  At first, the touch is gentle, cool steel skimming the uncut skin of his erection.  Inexorably, the pressure increases, her fist tightening until there is nothing left of pleasure but the hope of eventual release.  He forces his eyes open, too proud to beg but too weak not to want to._

_She is smiling up at him, reveling in the moment.  "You lie- on both counts."_

_It is Sara's body, naked but for the flowing quicksilver that clings to her curves with a lover's possessive touch.  Sara's body, but not Sara's will.  Her eyes are insane, shining with the blade's red fire.  Rage and hunger vie for supremacy in those seething depths, and he will never know which it is that inspires her attack._

_The air explodes from his lungs, white tiles cracking as his back slams against the shower wall.  Slumping in her grip, his arms pinned helplessly above his head, he lashes out while he still has the will to fight.  _

_His knee connects with her belly, a blow that would drop the strongest of men.  It serves only to deepen her smile, heighten the color in her cheeks.  "That's one of the things I always love about you- your need to make things more difficult than they have to be," she hisses, jamming herself between his legs and forcing his stance wider. _

_The liquid essence of the blade flows from her body to his, joining them together in a profane union of metal, flesh, and blood.  Alien and malevolent, it invades him in a way that is utterly familiar and utterly right.   With a spasmodic jerk, his hips thrust forward in a vain attempt to find relief.  She rewards him with her sharp teeth, clamping down on his right nipple just hard enough to draw blood.  When she pulls back, he is not surprised to find that the witchbade's tendrils still hold him firmly against the wall._

_"We have missed you too, Watcher.  Tell us you will return, and all will be forgiven."_

_His teeth grind together, holding back the words she wants to hear.  He won't fail again.  He won't allow himself the option._

_Temperance has never been a quality attributed to the blade.  There is a reason for that.  The metal that wraps his wrists begins to tighten.  He can feel the blood trickling down his arms, as first skin and then muscle gives way before the onslaught.  His defiance only seems to spur it on, and he can hear his bones as they begin to splinter._

_"Does the pain alleviate the guilt, Ian?," she whispers in his ear.  "Is that what Irons has taught you?  Kenneth is a beautiful boy, but he has seen only what we allowed.  He cannot absolve you, Ian.  Redemption is found in us.  Only in us."_

_Desperately, he struggles to wake up.  His mind knows it's possible, but his body betrays him.  Growling deep in his throat, he convulses as she slides his foreskin back and flicks the cleft of his cock with one dismissive finger._

_"Is this for me?"  The drop of pre-cum shimmers on her fingertip as she raises it to crimson lips.   _

_"The Lady Sara doesn't want this," he pants, mesmerized as she sucks the finger deep into her throat._

_"But you do."  Smiling a vampiric grin, she kneels down, her hot mouth brushing against his straining dick._

_"Yessss," he hisses, throwing his head back in defeat._

_"So will she before the night is over."_

_He screams when she takes him, the molten heat of her more intense than any memory.  Looking down at her perfect form, he finds ecstasy mirrored back by blue-green eyes._

"No no no no no," he chanted, crouching on his knees and rocking back and forth.  Somewhere far away, Sara moaned in her sleep and a young/old man pleasured himself with a hazel eyed man.

Ian's teeth chattered, his body numb beneath the freezing water.  It didn't help.  Three quick jerks and he came, nothing of pleasure in the act.  With a disgusted sigh, he shoved the shower door open and allowed his body to collapse across the thick cotton bathmat.  Pulling a towel from the rack, he tried to rub feeling back into his limbs, distantly noting that the pre-dawn light that filtered in through the bathroom curtains.

Time to get ready for work.

*************

Robert crept quietly into the hall and pulled the bedroom door shut.  He was halfway to the kitchen when he sensed another's presence.  Spinning instinctively, he found himself nose to chin with his newest employee.  "Ian!  What the hell are you doing!?"

Retreating a step, Ian took up that weird form of parade rest and fixed his attention firmly on the floor.  The man was fully dressed, down to the black gloves that covered his hands.  Shrugging broad shoulders, he offered no other response.

"Please don't tell me you stood guard outside the door all night.  Ian, am I supposed to trust you or get a restraining order?  After last night's conversation, I don't know."

Ian shook his head and flashed him a momentary glimpse of dark eyes.  "I haven't been here all night, sir.  I wasn't certain when you would require me, so I was here at 6."

Scratching his head, Robert slowly counted to ten.  Getting frustrated wouldn't do anyone any good.  "Ok- new rule.  No lurking outside of my bedroom door.  Ever.  If my wife caught you, blood would flow.  And while we're at it, no more staring at the ground when I'm talking to you, no more calling me 'sir', and when we aren't at work, my name is always 'Robert'.  Got all that?"

"Yes," came the subdued answer.

"Yes, what?" Robert snapped, too irritated to be cautious.

Ian's head shot up, his eyes blazing.  "Yes, Robert," he replied stiffly.

"Ian..."

"Sir?"

"Nevermind.  Come on.  You can start breakfast while I put the coffee on.  Susan won't get out of bed until I bring her her daily fix.  You look like you could use a little caffeine yourself.  Rough night?"

"No sir, Mr. Jameson.  Nothing out of the ordinary."

With a frustrated sigh, Robert led the way down the hall, wondering why his life was so difficult.

(End note- Barak and Devorah/Deborah are VERY loosely based on folks from the old testiment- Judges, book 4.  As far as I know, they were never lovers- and for that matter, I totally made up the fact that a priestess couldn't marry!  That said, the legend is the same.  Deborah was a 'judge'- a prophetess who talked to God.  She summoned Barak (which means 'Lightening') and they went to the Jezreel valley and kicked butt- with a little divine intervention!)


	5. Ch. 5

(Author's note- thanks again for feedback! Sorry I'm slow to update, but I do promise to finish this sucker! And someone recognized the biblical reference- and didn't get pissed. LOL- yea!)

Chapter 5 

"Damn good day for a barbeque, Bobby!  Springtime in D.C. is not always so kind."  Stepping through the French doors, Frank grabbed a Becks from the cooler and popped the top.

"You're early.  Big surprise," Robert replied as he stared intently at the gray slate roof of his house.  "Where's Li?"

"In the kitchen with Susan, probably mixing up some horrid fruit punch."  Flopping down on the warm flagstones surrounding the pool, Frank followed his boss' fixed gaze.  A dark silhouette crouched motionless atop the apex of the roof.  "What's your pet psychopath doing now?"

"He's going to put in a new security system," Robert replied with a shrug.

"Good!  I've been after you for years to do that.  How come you listen to him and not to me?"  Lying back on his towel, Frank feigned an offended pout.

"He never really asked.  Just showed up and started explaining the system specs.  I figured it was easier not to argue with him.  Of course, I've been watching him for almost an hour, and all he's done is hunker down on top of my roof.  He this productive at work, Frank?  He's been there a week, and every time I walk out the door, he's leaving the building.  What kind of lame schedule do you have him working, anyway?"

Frank waived a negligent hand.  "Lay off, Bobby.  Ian's busting his ass.  Shows up before I do and half the time I think he stays at his desk all night.  He ain't getting off work whenever you leave, he's following you.  Thought you'd have picked up on it by now!"

"He's what?!"  Robert sat up, a glare on his face.

"Oh, yea.  He trails you from your house to the office, every morning and every night.  You don't leave the building without a tail."

"You SOB," Robert muttered, shaking his head.  "I can't believe you ordered him to follow me around!"

"Don't look at me!"  Opening watery blue eyes, Frank was the picture of wounded innocence.  "I don't give Ian orders anymore.  Not since the little incident at the firing range."

Chugging down the last of his beer, Robert ground his teeth together and muttered, "Do I want to know what happened at the firing range?"

"Oh yea, this was a classic!" Frank replied, grinning broadly as he propped himself up on his elbows.  "You know the kid carries a pair of Glocks, right?  So I told him he had to qualify at the range or I wasn't going to let him in the building with a loaded weapon.  Wednesday morning, he shows up at the range, pulls out two modified Mac-10's and starts blasting away at the targets.  Full auto, Bobby.  There was more confetti in the air than there is at a Thanksgiving Day parade.  I damn near wet myself."

"Joyous.  My stalker is well armed."

Frank chuckled.  "Sneaky, too.  Guess how he always knows when you leave?"

"No clue, though the smart money says it involves lurking."

"Nope.  He's a flirt.  He actually convinced Mrs. Hansbulger to page him whenever you go out.  The guy knows your schedule before you do."

"Impossible," Robert said, his gaze drifting back to the shadowy figure on his rooftop.  "Ingrid won't even tell my wife where I am without checking with me first."

"Bet your barracuda of a secretary doesn't bake Susan pies, either."

"She baked him a pie?  Mrs. Hansbulger baked Ian a pie?"

"Mm hm."  Frank nodded happily.  "We've been getting lots of baked goods sent down to security lately.  Pies, cookies, cakes.  I think every woman in the building has brought in some shining example of her domestic prowess.  And by the way, you were right about Jim Avery.  Guy's as gay as track lighting."

Robert took his eyes off of Ian long enough to smirk.  "Dare I ask how you come by this oh so intimate knowledge of Jim's sexual preference?"

"He sent down muffins.  Blueberry muffins.  Very tasty."

"Well as long as your pastry needs are being met, guess I'll stop worrying," Robert replied, once more looking up at the object of their conversation.

"Jeesh, Bobby!  What's got a bee up your butt?  The kid's doing okay.  Hell, he's doing things I should have done years ago.  You need the beefed up security.  You're a 50 year old man who has more money than God and a beautiful wife and two young kids to protect.  You should have a driver.  You should have a decent security system.  I'm glad Ian's here.  Why aren't you?"

Robert slipped from the chair and went to grab another beer.  Keeping his back to Frank, he stared up into the clear blue skies for a moment and allowed himself a deep sigh.  "I'm glad he's here too.  He just... he makes me uneasy.  Somebody kept him on a very short leash for a very long time.  I keep wondering why."

"Maybe you're wondering if that somebody is going to want him back."

Taking a long swallow of beer, Robert nodded.  "Maybe."

"You worry too much, Bobby."  Cupping his hands around his mouth, Frank bellowed toward the roof using his best drill instructor voice.  "Yo, Ian!  Get your ass down here.  It's time to party!"

Smoothly, Ian stood.  A dark shadow backlit by the sun, he looked down on the two men beside the pool.  It was only when Robert nodded to him that he began to lope across the pitched roof.

"Guy's gonna break his fuck'n neck," Frank muttered.

"Frank, can you please keep the cursing to a minimum for once?  There are going to be kids all over the place...  Shit!  God damn it, Ian!"

Robert was out of his chair in an instance, but it was too late to make any difference.  Ian hit the edge of the roof and launched himself into space.  His arms spread for balance, he dropped like a rock toward the hard ground three-and-a-half stories below.  Knees flexing slightly as he landed, Ian glanced over with an inquisitive look and started jogging toward them.

"Jesus," Frank hissed, falling quickly in behind Robert as the man stormed over to meet Ian.

"What the fuck were you thinking?!"  Rounding on Ian, Robert grabbed him by the front of his shirt.  Ian immediately dropped his head and locked his arms behind his back, frozen in place.

"Bobby..."

"Shut up, Frank."  With his free hand, Robert grabbed Ian's jaw, forcing the taller man's head up.  "Damn it, Ian.  Are you crazy or merely suicidal?"

Confused hazel eyes met his, but Ian didn't answer.  Taking a deep breath, Robert slowly released the now wrinkled shirt.  "No more jumping off of buildings, Ian.  You got that?"  

"Yes sir," was the soft reply.

"Kid, you are going to be the death of me," Robert said, giving Ian's head a hard shake before letting him go.  "Get your ass into the pool-house and find a swimsuit.  I want you to spend the rest of the day lounging in the sun, drinking beer, and flirting with pretty girls.  No drawn weapons, no freefalls, and no fucking black turtlenecks and leather gloves in 75 degree weather.  That's an order, Ian."

Nodding once, Ian spun on his heel.  The two men watched him go.  "Damn, maybe the kid needs to be leashed, Bobby.  And what the hell is up with that weird-assed head thing he does around you?"

Groaning, Robert rolled his eyes.  "The way he's always looking at the ground?  Doesn't he do it around you?"

Frank snorted, half-choking on his beer.  "Fuck no.  The guy normally stalks through the office like he's the alpha wolf and the rest of us are a bunch of bitches in heat.  I keep waiting for him to piss in the corners, start marking his territory.  Hell, half the guys in the building snap to attention when he walks in the door, and every one of the snot-nosed mother-fuckers calls him 'sir'."

Robert shot him a hard look.  "Frank, they don't even call me 'sir'!"

"Yea, well you're not a big, scary, freak, now are you?"

"Um, no.  I suppose not."

"So...  What's up with the weird-assed head thing?"

"Hell if I know.  I thought he was shy."

This time when Frank laughed, Robert had to duck the spray of beer from his nose.

*****************

"I hope you boys have been behaving yourselves," Susan called cheerily as she walked outside, her hands laden with chips and salsa.  Mai Li was a step behind her bearing glass pitchers, one filled with pink punch, the other with smurf-blue.

"Uncle Frank!  When are you gonna take me on your Harley again?"  Bobby and Jenny sprinted by their mom's legs, the dogs trailing after them with lolling tongues.

"According to your father, not until you're 18," Frank said, giving the boy a loose hug as he plopped down on the towel next to him.  

"Dad!"  Bobby shot his father a venomous look.

"We'll see," Robert placated, pulling Jenny up to sit in his lap and shooing the dogs away from his open beer.

"Well can I at least show Ian my katana?  I bet he knows how to use it?"

"Where is Ian?" Susan asked over Frank's rumbling laughter.  "You don't still have him working, Robert?  It's Sunday!"

"Hey, that was his idea, not mine.  He's in the pool-house changing.  And no swords today, Bobby.  I think I've had all the ninja sh...."  Robert caught a glare from his wife and rephrased.  "I've had all of the ninja stuff I can handle today."

"Oh, come on, Bobby.  This, I want to see," Frank said.

"Me too," Frank's wife chimed in, her almond-shaped eyes twinkling impishly as she took a chair opposite Susan and poured herself a drink.  "I want to see what all of the fuss is about."

"Fine.  You can ask him for a demo, but be careful..."

Robert's words were lost as Bobby tore off in the direction of the pool-house, dodging around a group of young men and women as they strolled out onto the patio.

"Hey boss!  The door was open so we let ourselves in.  We brought Coronas!"

"Oh look, dear.  Your Neanderthals have arrived."

Ignoring his wife, Robert waved the group over.  "Good man, Jesse.  Throw 'em in the cooler."

Aside from the proliferation of crew cuts and military tattoos, the men who roughhoused their way toward him looked no different than any other gathering of 30-something yuppies.  Robert knew better.  They were some of the best the U.S. military had to offer, and now they worked for him.  With an unaccustomed flush of pride, he leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, feeling like the king of the world.

"Bloody hell, he's carrying a Glock under his swimsuit!  See the bulge?"

Frank's voice, not for the first time, jarred him from his pleasant thoughts.  Cracking his eyes open, he saw Ian standing beside the pool, Bobby tugging on his arm.  

"Oh yes, I see the bulge," Susan replied, amused appreciation in her tone.

"Definitely," Li chimed in.

"Yummy," Katy, a young blond who worked in accounting added, in case any clarification were needed.  "Do you guys know if he liked the chocolate chip cookies I made?"

"I liked your cookies," Jesse replied, a hopeful look on his face.

As Robert watched, Bobby demonstrated a flying kick that almost landed him on his butt.  Ian shook his head and muttered something, his attention fixed on the boy.  With one explosive movement, he leapt into the air, his right leg snapping out and up, easily extending to ten feet above the ground.  Bobby's awed gaze was quickly followed by an attempt to mimic Ian's form.  The effort ended with his head descending straight for the stone floor.  Robert was halfway to his feet when Ian caught Bobby in a strong grip and swung him up to perch on his shoulder.  

Completely unfazed, Bobby grabbed the top of Ian's head with one grubby hand, using the other to strike at unseen enemies as Ian began striding rapidly toward his crowd of onlookers. 

Unbound hair swung loose about his shoulders, framing his face in a dark mane of unruly curls.  The close cropped goatee Ian now sported gave him a demonic look, the effect enhanced by the way he moved.  Every muscle stood out in sharp relief beneath pale skin, the smooth play of tendon and sinew hypnotic and deadly.  Robert decided that if a snake could swagger, it would look like that.

Conversation ceased, the young men who stood at pool-side drawing themselves up, their backs going stiff, their chins rising.  Coming to a halt before them, Ian's eyes flickered over each face.  With a slight nod that screamed 'at ease', his assessment ended. 

As the younger crowd began drifting off, half of them diving into the heated waters of the pool, Ian deposited Bobby on the ground and turned to Robert.  Standing at the end of the chaise lounge, he bowed his head, clearly awaiting orders.

It was ludicrous.  There was a half-naked man wearing a pair of low-slung black trunks paying him homage like it was the most natural thing in the world.  With a sudden start, Robert recognized that this was what it was really like to be a king.  He also realized he didn't like it.  "Go get a beer, Ian."

A muscle twitched in his jaw, but Ian made no other protest.  As he turned to go, Li called softly to him in Taiwanese.  Robert saw the ghost of a smile in his eyes as Ian gave her a half-bow and then walked away. 

"Hey Frank, what did Li say to him?" Robert whispered.

"Rough translation- 'Your grace is wasted on these dumbass white boys.'.  Of course, it sounds more polite in Taiwanese.  Most things do."

*****************

"You still cook a mean steak," Frank said, slapping an arm to Robert's shoulder.  "Gonna come watch the fun?  Bobby brought the sword out."

"How do I let you talk me into these things," Robert moaned as they walked toward the treeline at the back of his property.

"Admit it, you're curious too."

"Yea, well you know what they say about curiosity."

"Fortunately, we ain't cats."  Lowering his voice, Frank continued.  "You notice the scars?"

"Hard to miss," Robert replied.  "Looks like he got cut a time or two in Ninja 101."

"I meant the scars on his back, Bobby," Frank chided.

Robert avoided his eyes.  "Probably shrapnel."

"Bullshit.  Someone did that to him.  Purposefully.  Deliberately.  That wasn't a war wound, Bobby.  It was a punishment."

Halting in the middle of the field, Robert grabbed Frank by the arm.  "You want to ask him about it?"

"No!"

"Well neither do I.  We're gonna leave this one alone, Frank.  Ian's past is dead and buried.  The smart thing to do is leave it be."

Frank nodded his agreement.  "It does make sense of a few things, though."

"Nothing about that man makes sense.  I doubt that's likely to change," Robert said, resuming his pace.

Ian's low voice drifted over to them.  He knelt beside Bobby, a sheathed katana held horizontally in his hands.  "The length is too short for me, but it will be a good practice blade when you're older.  It's not a work of art, but it is serviceable."

"Show me something I can practice?" Bobby asked, bouncing on the balls of his feet in his eagerness.

Ian shook his head, slowly pulling the weapon from its sheath.  "No.  You might cut yourself," he said as he began twirling the blade in a lazy figure eight pattern.  "Train with a kendo stick.  You're sensei will know when you are ready for a sharpened blade."

"Is that what happened to your back?  Training?"

Robert flinched at the question, and the blade in Ian's hand seemed to hesitate.  

"The scars are from training, yes," Ian replied, his voice still calm and gentle.   

"How long before I'm as good as you?"

Ian debated a moment, his hands picking up speed.  The air around him began to hum, the breeze kicked up by the twisting metal ruffling his hair.  Finally, he shrugged and cocked his head to the side.  "Never."

The darkening sky screamed and the slender blade turned to gold as it ripped through the ether too fast to see.  It was a deadly dance, a whirlwind of metal, flesh and bone.  One movement flowed into the next, divine order and perfect discipline yielding utter chaos and total destruction.  His eyes shining and his teeth bared, Ian exalted in the bloodlust as it sang through his veins.  An instance before blood was drawn, he stopped the dance.  The flat of his sword pressed lightly against the boy's throat, and Ian could feel the rapid pulse of his heart carried to him by the gleaming steel.  Slowly, he let out a deep sigh and allowed the point of his blade to drop.

"Wow!"  Wide-eyed and flushed, Bobby stared at him with a reverence generally reserved for gods.  "Do it again!"

*****************

"That was quite a show you put on," Robert said, halting Ian with a raised hand as the others made their way back to the house.

Ian kept his eyes on the now sheathed weapon.  Almost reluctantly, he offered it up to Robert.  "I haven't held a blade since....  It's been a long time.  I had managed to forget the beauty of it."

Taking the katana, Robert merely nodded.  "Are you planning to follow me in to work tomorrow?  Frank gave up your little secret."

Ian ducked his head further, his hair falling forward and shielding his eyes.  "I'm a bodyguard, Mr. Jameson.  It's what I do.  It's what I've always done."

"Guess I'll take that as a 'yes'," Robert muttered.  "I'll be leaving at 7:30.  You insist on doing this, we might as well ride in together.  Show up early, and you can grab breakfast with the family."

Ian glanced over, his eyes widening.  "Thank you."

"You're welcome.  One more thing, Ian.  Don't you ever, I mean fucking ever, bring a sharpened blade that close to my son again."

Half-a-step behind his boss, Ian simply nodded.


	6. Ch. 6

(A/N: sorry this is so slow in coming- I got slammed by exams!  This one is more than a bit dark.)

Chapter 6

Robert kept his eyes on the road, but his attention was on his passenger.  For a guy who could pass for mute, Ian 'Smith' had a hell of a tendency to draw attention to himself.  Stifling a sigh, Robert checked the rearview mirror, searching for some sign of a tail.  Nothing.  Of course.  The damn paranoia was contagious.

"Ian, stop sulking.  You've been doing it every time we drive into work and it's getting old."  Punching the gas, Robert expertly threaded his 300-SI through the heavy morning traffic.  Sneaking a glance at his unresponsive co-pilot, he twitched the wheel and swerved into the passing lane.  The tires screeched, Ian's jaw tightened, and Robert grinned as he mentally chalked up a point in their daily pissing contest.  

"Susan agrees with me," Ian replied as he scanned the cars flowing by outside.  "There is no point in having a driver if you don't allow him to drive."

"Susan just wants me to do my paperwork in the car instead of at home.  It has nothing to do with your security training or your driving expertise, Ian.  You are so damn gullible where my wife is concerned!"

Ian spared him a wounded look, but gave no other protest.  Slumping down in the padded leather seat, he tucked his hands inside the lightweight sweat jacket he wore and refused to be baited.  

Robert was willing to bet his stock options that Ian had his fingers wrapped around the butts of those Glocks, just waiting for an excuse to open up on someone.  The kid was always wired on the ride into work.  It had reached the point Robert had stopped asking if Ian had had a rough night.  He now assumed Ian knew no other kind.  

"You're sulking again," he chided.

"I am not sulking.  I am practicing."

Surprised to get a response, Robert quirked a brow.  "Practicing what?"

"The mournful look I'm going to wear at your funeral."

"Well, practice harder," Robert replied with a grin.  "You look like you're having an attack of gas.  Probably those damn Coco Puffs you eat for breakfast.  Grown men don't eat Coco Puffs.  You do realize that, don't you?"

Ian flushed and bowed his head.  "Sugar is high in energy," he muttered, staring at his boots like a guilty kid.

Crap!  Not the head thing again.  It had taken the entire month to reach the stage where Ian would hold eye contact for more than five seconds.  Robert decided it was time for his daily curse against whoever had fucked the kid up.  As usual, calling down a silent litany of plagues, boils and infectious diseases greatly improved his mood.  "Ian, you can eat whatever you damn well please. For all I care, you could have a steady diet of nothing but Ring Dings and Yoo-Hoo."

Settling his shoulders, Ian went back to his surveillance of the outside world.  "Ring Dings?"  

"Yea, Ian.  Ring Dings.  Don't they have Ring Dings in Siberia?"

Biting his tongue, Robert didn't wait for a reply he knew wouldn't come.  "Ring Dings are...  Well, have you ever had chocolate soufflé?"

"Of course."

"'Of course I've had chocolate soufflé.'," Robert mimicked under his breath, finally gaining a brief flash of hazel eyes for his efforts.  "Sorry.  But if you know what chocolate soufflé is like, Ring Dings are exactly not like that.  Clear things up for you?"

"Not really, sir.  Perhaps Frank could provide additional insight."   

"Low blow, Ian.  The last person you should ever go to for advice is Frank!  Which reminds me, are you riding with me tonight?  Thought Frank was taking you out after work?"

"He is," Ian replied.  "Jason Morris will escort you home tonight, sir.  Frank insists that we celebrate my one month anniversary."  

"Only a month?  Seems like longer."

Ian started at the comment, and Robert shook his head.  "I didn't mean it like that.  I just...  We've gotten used to having you around."

"No, you're right.  It feels like I've been here forever."  Starring northward, Ian seemed to drift away.  His eyes lost focus, his hands clenched tight.  After a long moment, he drew a deep breath, his typical stoic expression replaced by one of longing. 

As he pulled the BMW off the freeway, Robert told himself to let the matter drop.  He'd been telling himself that a lot lately.  Damn...  He never had been any good at following orders.  "Something's been eating at you ever since I met you, and it doesn't appear to be getting any better.  Why don't you tell me what's going on?  Maybe I can do something to help."

Ian's face went blank, the emotion draining away as if it had never been.  "There is nothing to be done, sir.  It won't interfere with my job, you have my word."

"Ian, it's not about the job.  But if it's something I can help with..."

"No!"  Ian cut him off, angry for the first time Robert could remember.  Dropping his head, he struggled to collect himself.  "Sir, there's nothing you can do.  It's... a family problem."

"You told me you don't have any family, Ian."

"I don't," Ian snapped, clearly uncomfortable with conversation.      

"And that's the problem, huh?"  Robert pressed, starting to get pissed, though he couldn't say why.  "This the same 'family' that's responsible for the scars on your back?  This the 'family' that taught you to stand around looking like a dog that's been beat too much?"

Slamming a fist against the dashboard, Ian swung around to face him.  "You know nothing of this, Robert!  The world you live in...  You could not possibly understand."

Swallowing hard, Robert avoided the hot glare of Ian's eyes.  "I understand the scars, Ian.  I know someone did that to you on purpose.  Nothing you could have done deserved a punishment like that." 

"It wasn't... it was not a punishment."

"Then what the hell was it?"

For a long moment, Robert didn't think he was going to get an answer.  When he did, he could barely hear.

"Penance."

Christ!  Ian was defending it.  Robert felt the bile rise in the back of his throat, but no argument he made was going to change Ian's twisted view of his past.  Keeping his tone purposely light, he replied, "Kid, you need to look into finding a new church."

Ian's offered an ugly grin.  "Don't worry, sir.  I've been excommunicated.  As I said, it won't affect my work."

"It ain't about the work, Ian."

Once more in 'surveillance mode', Ian simply nodded.  "I know."

************************

Ian toweled the sweat from his bare shoulders and walked toward the rooftop's edge.  For the first time that day, he felt at peace.  He shouldn't have snapped at Robert and he most definitely shouldn't have put a fist through his dashboard.  Most of all, he shouldn't have been thinking about home.  Seemed he was getting very good at doing things he shouldn't do.  Kenneth would not have tolerated such behavior for a instance.  

And here he was again, thinking about things he shouldn't be thinking about.  

Frustrated with himself, he tried to convince himself that this was just another day that could be classified as 'good'.  Jason had reported that Robert and his family were safely ensconced in their home, he'd had time for a two-hour workout before the sun fully set, and he hadn't needed to think about drawing a weapon much less taking a life. As Frank would say, two out of three ain't bad. 

Linking his fingers in the chain-link fence, he stretched out knotted muscles and allowed his gaze to wander.  He loved watching the city as night fell and the Am-Tech tower offered a perfect view.  Or at least, it would have but for the blasted fence.  Americans and their insatiable need to protect the weak and the foolish from the consequences of their own folly.  It was as if the law of natural selection were a foreign concept in this land.  

Snorting in disgust, Ian grabbed the top of the six-foot fence and vaulted over, landing lightly on a narrow ledge.  A strong updraft pushed back a few escaped tendrils of hair and the building seemed to sway beneath him.  Leaning out over the void, he considered the 70-story drop.  If he fell from here, not even Irons could put him back together again.  Of course, he wouldn't fall and jumping wasn't permitted.  A pity, really.  The freefall would be magnificent and the landing would put an end to this pathetic charade of a life he was attempting to create.

He paced the ledge, heading north.  If he concentrated, he could see the New York skyline just over the horizon.  At least, he could pretend to see it.  Pretense would have to suffice.

Reaching the corner of the roof, Ian leapt to the top of a concrete pillar and settled down on its warm, flat surface.  His legs dangling, he absently ran his fingers over the faint scars that wove their way up his right arm.  

Two months since he had left home.  Fifty-four days, eighteen hours and twelve minutes, to be precise.  Kenneth had always preached the importance of precision- it had been one of his more benign lessons.  The ugly welts that scored his back began to pulse- silent sympathy or acrimonious warning, he wasn't sure.  

Ian knew Irons was angry.  He had been for weeks, his ire polluting their bond like some cancerous growth.  He'd nearly picked up a phone half-a-dozen times over the course of the past month.  It would have been a relief to hear his master's cultured tones- forgiving him, chastising him, yelling at him...  Not that Irons would yell.  Kenneth might occasionally hit, but he never yelled. 

Driven by a bone-deep weariness that had nothing to do with his workout, Ian pulled his knife from its sheath.  Careful not to cut the skin, he traced the fine white lines that encircled his wrist.  Thousands of dollars worth of plastic surgery had gone into erasing the visible signs of his encounter with the witchblade.  At first, he'd failed to see the point.  The witchblade was not something one forgot, scars or no scars.  

Maturity had brought understanding.  The blade's stigmata had been removed so that Irons wouldn't have to look at it.  Ian's compensation for the loss had been the mangled skin on his back, his own personal memento of Kenneth's love.  It was, in hindsight, more than he deserved.  

Too bloody bad.  He was keeping the scars.  All of the scars.

Smiling a wolf's grin, he slid the knife's tip past the tendons in his right wrist, driving it in until it scraped against bone.  The cold bite of the metal was welcomed, and he hoped that somewhere out there, Irons could feel his defiance.  Not that Kenneth would care.  Not anymore.

His eyes closed, dry and gritty.  Yanking the blade from his arm, he wiped off the offending blood and returned it to its scabbard.  He could muster the courage for only so much disobedience and the limit for today had been reached.  He should go inside, find Frank.  Maybe drink some beer, eat some pizza, fuck a woman, fuck a man.  Be normal.  The charade, after all, must go on.

Instead, he tilted his head back, offered greeting to the rising moon and let the memories flow free.  

************************

_The boy staggers down the darkened hallway, oblivious to the trail of blood he leaves behind.  The void will be filled.  He cannot abide this constant need, this empty hole that was created when they ripped the witchblade from his flesh.  The siren call draws him on, stronger than loyalty and more permanent than death._

_Pushing soundlessly through the double doors, he breaches the inner sanctum.  The wielders past stare down at him from the walls, their disapproving faces recognizing him for the pretender he is.  Fortunately, their approval is not required.  Unfortunately, they are not alone._

_With his usual polished perfection, Irons dominates the center of the shadowed room.  One hand casually rests atop the glass enclosure that contains the witchblade, but his focus is on the teenage intruder._

_"Ian?  You should be in bed."_

_Any other night, the hint of concern in Irons' tone would have sent a flush of pride through him.  Irons is the center of his universe, his approval the only quest worth pursuing.  But the blade has shown him that his universe is a very small place and Kenneth Irons merely another scrap of human meat._

_"It wants me," Ian croaks, sidling forward, his eyes locked on the glowing stone that has summoned him, the heart of chaos calling him home._

_"It wants to kill you, Ian.  It almost did.  Don't you remember?"  Stepping in front of the dais, Irons purposely blocks his view._

_Blinking in confusion, Ian raises his head and stares up at the closest thing he has to a god.  "We remember everything, Kenneth."_

_Blue-green eyes turn cold, Irons' face a stoic mask.  "You are dripping blood on a very expensive carpet, Ian." _

_"I'm sorry."  Instantly contrite, he drops his eyes, his fingers wrapping around the sodden gauze that binds his arm.  Swaying back and forth, he is vaguely aware of the pain hidden behind the creeping chill that wraps his bones._

_A warm hand squeezes his shoulder, anchoring his reality, fending off the nothingness.  "I should never have permitted this.  You are too young and the witchblade is made far too angry by its current state."_

_"I'm fifteen!"  _

_Irons rolls his eyes, his lips quirking in an almost grin.  "Exactly.  Now, go to bed."_

_The hand pushes him away, sending him off to his room like the good little boy he is.  Ian takes one step back and then halts.  "No."_

_For a moment, they are both shocked.  The boy has never denied him, never even considered the possibility.  Irons recovers first, his hand snaking out to grab the wounded arm.  One vicious twist and Ian is on his knees.  "Never forget who is master here."_

_Like a drowning man, Ian grabs for Kenneth's wrist.  Sobbing for breath, he rests his head against the back of the man's hand.  "It's inside my head.  I can't hear anything else.  Not you.  Not myself.  Please..."_

_Awkwardly, Irons pats at Ian's shoulder.  A moment of hesitation, a brief grimace of distaste, and then he crouches down in front of the boy.  "Shhhh," he gentles, pushing back the damp hair that hangs in Ian's face.  "The voices will fade with time.  For now, you must ignore it.  If you don't, it will destroy you."_

_"The witchblade didn't destroy you," Ian whispers._

_Irons manages a rueful nod.  "No, it rejected me.  That is what the witchblade does- it accepts or it rejects- often with fatal consequences.  But with you...  It tried to consume you, Ian.  To take you over.  Your unique genetic structure, your relationship to the wielder...  I don't know why, not yet.  Whatever the cause, the blade's reaction was not normal.  If Dr. Immo had been a little less proficient, we would have lost you."_

_"It didn't hurt me."  Raising his head, Ian gathers the tattered remains of his self-control.  Forcing himself to meet his master's eyes, he shakes his head.  "Not until you cut it out.  It wants to leave.  It wants the wielder.  You can't keep us here, Kenneth.  The witchblade will not be denied forever."_

_"I can do anything I choose, young Nottingham.  To you.  To the witchblade.  You are both my property.  I thought you had accepted that truth long ago."  Running a tapered finger along Ian's jaw, Irons studies him as if searching for some hidden flaw.  _

_For once, Ian holds his stare.  "I've died before.  A thousand lifetimes worth."  _

_The softly spoken words hang in the air.  A challenge.  A request.  Irons is in no mood to gratify either._

_"I doubt you enjoyed the experience and I promise that you would not enjoy it by my hand.  Have you any doubt of that?"_

_"No sir," he replies, his too bright eyes losing focus as his exhausted body begins to shake.    _

_"Enough of this foolishness."  With an irritated grunt, Irons loops an arm around Ian's chest and pulls him to his feet.  _

_Too tired to fight, too tired to care, Ian leans against Irons as the taller man half-drags him toward the door.  Inside his mind, the malevolent fury of the blade twists through his synapses, whispered words stirring long forgotten lives.  The memories crash down on him, a red tide of blinding emotion.  Ecstasy.  Transcendence.  Annihilation.  No man shall not deny them their destiny.  No man shall..._

_He tries to jerk away, to take his rightful place.  Somewhere in the distance, there is the sound of muttered cursing.  Strong fingers dig into the muscles at the back of his neck, the arm around his chest tightening until he can feel his ribs start to crack.  His opponent is too big, too strong.  This is a fight he can never win, but he has waged hopeless battles before._

_The polished tiles are slick beneath his feet and he scrambles frantically for a means of escape.  In silent desperation, he latches onto a display pedestal.  The solid oak column halts his progress for but a moment, then teeters before the irresistible force that pulls at him.  Boudica smiles from atop her precarious perch.  Cast in bronze, she is just as cold and beautiful and scarred as she had been in life.  His doom once before, in this lifetime, she will be his deliverance.       _

_Ian swings hard, every ounce of hard-earned muscle behind the blow.  The base of the statue takes Irons in the forehead, staggering him, forcing him back.  _

_Glittering blue eyes, a trickle of blood, and Ian swings again.  The old man is too slow to stop him, pain and disbelief robbing him of his defenses.  The crack of bone echoes through the cavernous room, drowning out the shrill shriek of the witchblade's vengeful cry._

_Panting shallowly, Ian stands tall above his vanquished foe.  His master.  His father.  Through the crimson haze that fogs his vision, he watches the blood flow across the floor in an ever-widening pool.  So much blood.  Too much blood._

_"No," he mutters, rejecting the blade's demands, rejecting the reality that lays at his feet.  _

_Crashing to his knees, Ian slaps his free hand to Irons' forehead.  Bearing down hard, he tries to stop the flow, but with every heartbeat, more of Kenneth's life leaks away.  _

_Irons is growing paler, fair skin fading to white, and still the blade is not satisfied.  Its lust for its captor's death clots the very air he breathes, demanding that he finish what he has started.  His fury flares, purging the voices.  All of the voices.  Screaming his loathing, Ian slings the blood-spattered statue at the blade.  The glass case explodes, shimmering shards falling like frozen tears. In the silence of the witchblade's temple, Ian is left with nothing but the blood on his hands and the knowledge of what he has wrought. _

_************************_

_The concrete room is sterile and cold, an appropriate tomb for a traitor such as he.  Ian prays to every god he's ever read about that treachery is all he is guilty of.  Irons is not dead.  He can't be dead._

_The pitted surface of the wall in front of him begins to blur and he widens his stance, fights to keep his balance.  Three weeks chained to a bed has left him weak and groggy and standing in place for the better part of the day is beginning to take its toll.  Is this how they intend to kill him?  Let him stand here until he falls?  It's too kind a death._

_Reaching out with his mind, Ian tries to convey his acceptance, his desire to atone.  Silence is the only reply.  No surprise.  He's becoming use to the solitude in the same way one becomes 'use' to a missing limb.  When he'd first woken from his drug-induced sleep, he'd called for Irons and received no response.  Not from the voice inside his head and not from Dr. Immo.  Recrimination and a hint of fear, that's all he'd seen in the good doctor's eyes.  Ian hadn't spoken again and no one had spoken to him.   Why should things change now?_

_The click of a lock warns him that his solitude is coming to an end.  Do they realize he isn't dead yet?  Ian doesn't move, intent on obedience now that it is too late to matter.  _

_Footsteps, as men spread out behind him.  Immo, he can tell by the subtle hint of his aftershave.  Someone else, someone big.  His executioner?  A third man, waiting in the doorway.  Goosebumps spread across his naked body and uncontrollably, he starts to shake.  Irons.  The sense of relief threatens to drop him to the ground._

_The faint tread of a leather-soled shoe breaks him from his from his trance.  Tucking his chin to his chest, he holds back the words he wants to scream.  Words won't make things right.  He won't degrade himself further with worthless excuses._

_"You healed quickly, Nottingham.  More quickly, even, than I did."  Standing just behind Ian's right shoulder, Irons takes the boy's arm and traces the angry cuts with a feather's touch.  "Of course, your wounds were not nearly so grievous, were they?"_

_The boy's silence goads the lurking anger to life.  Snarling, Irons knots his fingers in Ian's hair, forcing panicked eyes to meet his.  "Answer me!"_

_Gasping for air, Ian hisses, "No sir."_

_He receives a sardonic grin for his efforts before Irons shoves his head back down, reminding him of his place.  The fingers seat themselves more deeply in his scalp and Irons edges closer, hard up against his body.  Ian can feel the raw silk of a tailored suit, pressing against his back and thighs.  The thready touch of a whispered breath ruffles his hair as cool dry lips press a chaste kiss to the base of his neck.  "I loved you like a son, Ian.  It is important that you know that."_

_As quickly as the longed for acceptance is given, it is withdrawn.  Pulling away, Irons circles his charge.  Ignoring the tight sobs for breath, he cups Ian's chin and again raises his head.  He contemplates dark eyes and the unshed tears they hold.  "Like a son, Ian.  Yet one touch of the witchblade and you become my Judas!"_

_The blow is no more expected than was the kiss.  White pain explodes against the side of his face, knocking him off balance.  Unbelieving, Ian dabs his fingers to his lip, stares stupidly at the blood that stains them._

_"You are a disgrace."_

_"I'm sorry," he can't help but murmur as he resumes his pose.  _

_"Yes, you are."  The German accent comes to the fore as Irons distastefully wipes the blood from his knuckles.  Shaking his head, he walks away from his captive audience.  _

_"I had thought you special, Ian.  I believed that you would be the one.  But without loyalty...  It is fortunate that you can be replaced."_

_Ian's face aches, his mind befuddled.  This, however, is a concept he still comprehends.  _

_Irons senses his raw fear and nods in confirmation.  "You are expendable, Ian.  As I made you, so can I make another- as perfect as you are and untainted by the witchblade's poison."_

_Numbly he stands, struggling to breathe as Irons' words suck every molecule of air from his lungs.  It's all he can do not to cry, not to beg.  It's only right that Irons should have someone worthy at his side.  Worthy, he is not._

_Ian keeps his head bowed, waiting with infinite patience as Irons returns to stand before him.  At least his death will spare him the vision of another taking his place._

_"I should put you down, Ian.  You are too... defective a creature to be unleashed on an unsuspecting world."   _

_Forcing tense muscles to relax, he anticipates the bullet in the back.  He doesn't deserve the grace of a sword and Irons has never granted him anything he didn't deserve.  So prepared for pain, the gentle touch of a hand makes him flinch.  _

_"Jensen will take you to the airport and provide you with the necessary funds," Irons says, as he cups the side of Ian's face and runs his thumb across one angular cheekbone.  "I want you gone, Ian.  Where you go matters not, so long as it is someplace far away from me.  Someplace I won't be able to find you on the nights when I sit and remember your betrayal."  _

_Irons is almost to the door before Ian realizes what he's done.  Death was an old and familiar enemy, but this abandonment...  "You own me.  You said so."_

_His voice is dry and cracked and he barely recognizes it as his own.  But Irons doesn't leave, and that's the only thing that matters.  _

_"You broke faith with me.  You brought dishonor upon yourself.  Upon my house. Tell me Nottingham, what possible penance could pay for your sins?"_

_It is a reprieve if he can earn it, and he will do anything necessary to win back Irons' favor.  Kneeling on the cold ground, he searches for the right words, the words Irons wants to hear.  Nothing less than the truth will suffice.  "Everything I am.  Everything I will ever be.  My life, my death.  I give it freely, master."    _

_"Get up."_

_Approval and a savage form of satisfaction.  Ian can feel it flooding into him through the link he'd believed was broken.  He's passed a test he didn't know he was taking and nothing that happens now can rob him of that.  He will be worthy.  _

_"Put your hands on top of your head and keep them there," Irons commands, tilting Ian's chin up before wrapping his hand around the back of his neck._

_The approval he yearns for shines down on him from familiar blue eyes.  Lacing his fingers together, Ian buries any doubts deep inside.  The pose leaves him exposed and vulnerable, and the hand that tightens around the back of his neck serves to reinforce his lack of control.  It is exactly the way he is meant to feel, so he accepts it.  It is what Irons wants._

_"Earn my forgiveness, Ian.  Prove to me that you are the one."_

_He senses the blow before it falls, instinct telling him to twist away. But instinct is what brought him here, and if he's leaned nothing else, it's that obedience is the one virtue Irons requires of him.  Standing firm, he feels the whip tear through the center of his back.  The air is driven from his body, and only Irons' hand prevents him from falling forward.  Numbness and shock are replaced by a swiftly spreading fire, the extent of which he is only beginning to grasp when the bullwhip descends again.  _

_The thick leather sizzles as it rips through the air.  Wielded by an expert, it can cut to the bone.  For Ian's atonement, Irons would accept nothing less than an expert.  The sound of leather on skin fills the room, the sodden thuds of blood-soaked hide followed by grunts of pain that cannot quite be held back.  When it is done, the boy is on the floor.  Kneeling in his own gore, he takes the proffered hand and confirms his obeisance._

************************

The cool breeze carried him back, despite his desire to stay in the past.  It had been his finest moment, and he was loath to let it go.  Twenty blows he had taken before his knees had begun to buckle.  He'd been so afraid that it wouldn't be enough, but then Irons had pulled him close.  He'd tucked his head into the crook of the taller man's neck and been so damned grateful he'd almost cried.  Another ten lashes marked him before Irons had let go and he'd slid to the floor.  Even now, he felt the surge of pride and triumph as he proved that he was the one.  No one else could take his place, his worth branded onto his skin in Irons' obscene version of a signature.

Now that he thought about it, Ian was surprised Irons hadn't had the scars removed before he had dispossessed him.  They were the one thing of value he'd been allowed to retain.

"Ian!  Hey, Ian! If you're gonna jump, make sure you don't land on my car.  Just got it washed!"

"Frank."  Ian sighed and let the past slip away.  Gathering his legs under him, he stood, peering out over the edge of the building for one long moment.  The freefall really would be incredible.  Turning away from temptation, he easily leapt from the pillar to the ground beyond the fence.   

"Cocky bastard.  Bet you haven't even killed anyone today," Frank said in appreciation of his proweress.

"The day's not over yet, Frank."

Frank grunted a laugh.  "Well, hold off on the slaughter until we can get some beers in us.  I know a great little place.  Good whiskey, lots of smoke, and they even have a live band on Fridays.  You like Irish pubs?"

"Words fail to express my enthusiasm," Ian replied, deciding that he really did want a beer or twelve.  With one last glance to the north, he rejoined the charade.

(End note- if you think the 'Coco Puffs' reference was a nod toward the story 'Truce', you'd be right!)


	7. Ch. 7

(A/N- Jeesh- how long is ffn going to be down!  Fortunately, I'm halfway through ch. 8, so it shouldn't take as long as this one did.  As always- thanks for the feedback!  As to Ian and Sara…  I don't want to spoil things by dropping any hints!)

Chapter 7

Stale beer and fresh vomit.  At least, that's what Ian guessed the unique aroma was.  Hard to tell beneath the pervasive stench of the cigarette smoke.  

"See!  I told you this place was great!" Frank shouted in his ear, struggling to be heard as the advertised 'live band' finished hacking its way through a Chieftains' tune.   

"Lovely," Ian muttered, shouldering his way past a sweaty throwback to the Stone Age.  If he found the man's half-clothed state odd, he was apparently the only one in the bar who did.

"Jesus, Ian.  Pull the goddamn silver spoon out of your ass, why don't you?!"  Motioning to the bartender, Frank plunked triumphantly down on a newly vacated bar stool.  

Vaguely affronted, Ian stomped up to the middle-aged drunk who now occupied the seat next to Frank.  Not quite touching him, Ian stood ramrod straight and glowered.  Seconds later, he eased down onto the suddenly empty stool and flashed Frank a smug grin.  He might be unfamiliar with the bar scene, but he was well schooled in the art of intimidation.

"That's one of the things I like about you, Ian.  You're about as subtle as a sledge hammer."  Tossing a twenty on the bar, Frank raised his pint glass in salute.  "Happy anniversary, kid."

"Sláinte."  The black and tan was perfectly poured and not quite cold.  Three long gulps, and it was gone.  A beer or twelve, or something stronger....

"I thought you didn't drink much?"  Frank had that slightly concerned look on his face, the one that proved he was smarter than Robert in most of the ways that mattered. 

"One drink is the sign of a civilized man.  Two is permissible.  Anything more than that verges on boorish."  Ian parroted the words with a German accent, not that Frank would get the joke.  Just as well.  It wasn't a very funny joke.  

"You're a weird kid, Ian."

"I'm a freak.  I have it on good authority."  Ian waved the bartender over and the concerned look on Frank's face got more concerned.

"Maybe a bar wasn't the best idea.  You up for a movie?"  

"Whiskey- and leave the bottle."

Wiping his hands on his dirty undershirt, the barkeep smirked.  "This is an Irish pub, boyo.  You're going to have to be a bit more specific."

"Midleton Rare."  The smirk was replaced by an embarrassed frown.

"Bushmills will be just fine," Frank interjected, nudging Ian in the ribs with his elbow.  As the bartender grudgingly turned  away, Frank leaned in closer to Ian's ear.  "They don't have two hundred dollar bottles of booze in this place, Ian.  Damn!  Are you trying to start a fight?"

"No fights.  I don't think Robert wants me to kill anyone."

"Yea- I'm pretty sure not.  Ian... please tell me you're not a mean drunk."  If Frank got any more 'concerned', Ian was worried he'd rupture something.

"I don't drink," he placated, dropping a crumpled wad of cash on the bar and cracking the seal on the whiskey.  As the bartender picked through the roll of hundreds looking for something smaller, Ian attempted a friendly smile.  "Do you have any Ring Dings?"

Frank groaned and the bartender jammed a random bill in his pocket before stalking away, muttering under his breath.  Ian knew enough Gallic to realize he'd been insulted, but as a favor to Frank he pretended he didn't.

Resolving to track down some Ring Dings before he went home, Ian filled his pint glass to the rim.  Two drinks were permissible.  He was still in the realm of the civilized.  Slamming sixteen ounces back like another man would a shot glass, he enjoyed the burn as the alcohol tore straight to his gut.  It tasted like the antiseptic Immo used on him when he was careless enough to be hurt, careless enough to let Irons know he'd been hurt.  

Immo and sterile rooms and Kenneth's disapproving gaze.  More memories he could do without.  Time to discover whether memories could drown.

"I swear, if you get me killed tonight, Mai Li is going to castrate you.  Cut your balls right off.  She's a woman who could do it.  Believe me, I know."

Frank's yammering voice wound down and Ian had to bite the inside of his lip to keep from laughing.  Frank was almost as much fun to irritate as Kenneth had been, the lack of hitting an added bonus.  Oh, yes.  The beer had been a very good idea and the whiskey was proving to be an even better one.  'Recreational drug use.'  He'd never understood the concept before now.

"You are going to be completely shit-faced," Frank said, his voice softening.  "Have you ever even been drunk before?"

More memories.  Not exactly good, but not exactly bad, and he nodded.  "Once," he replied, ducking his head as if sharing a secret.  "I was rebelling."

"Were you successful?"

Ian couldn't help a grimace at remoteness of that possibility.  "Were the Irish?"

Frank chuckled and with a shrug of his shoulders let the concerned look fade away.  "Okay, I give up.  You deserve a bender.  We shall drink 'til we puke, we'll kick a little local ass, and before the end of the night, we're gonna get you laid.  Fair enough?"

_I don't want to get laid_. No, he couldn't even pretend to say those words.  "I'm spoken for."  Still not the truth, as Sara had barely spoken _to_ him, much less _for_ him.  But it would do.

Tugging the half-empty bottle from Ian's hand, Frank tilted it to his lips.  "You have a girlfriend and you didn't say anything?  Spill.  I want to hear about the woman who finally managed to throw a rope around you."

When he didn't respond, Frank poked him with the bottle.  "It is a woman, isn't it?"

Snatching the whiskey, Ian took a deep swallow.  Three glasses, no matter how you counted.  He had officially reached 'boorish'.  Right up there with disloyalty and disobedience on the list of deadly sins.  Maybe Irons would give him credit for consistency?

"Earth to Ian!  A simple, 'I don't want to talk about it,' would be sufficient."

"I don't want to talk about it."

"So- is she pretty?"

Ian was still debating whether Robert would forgive him for killing Frank when the band cranked the volume and kicked off their second set.  The sound made his teeth hurt, and it took a moment to realize that it was 'Danny Boy' they were in the process of butchering.  Surely Robert couldn't be angry with him for killing a band that was this bad?

"Jesus, they suck!"  Frank shared his opinion with anyone close enough to hear, but not even the locals were willing to rise to the defense of the hapless trio. Reclaiming the bottle, he shook his head.  "The only thing that band has going for it are the tight pants on the lead singer's ass."

"What he lacks in talent, he makes up for in enthusiasm.  Reminds me of another singer I used to know."  An uncharitable comment, but Ian didn't feel particularly charitable when it came to Conchobar.

"Doesn't sound like you liked the man much.  I'm surprised he's still alive," Frank teased.

"I didn't and he's not."

The concerned look again.  Ian was starting to get tired of it.  "I didn't kill him, Frank.  Not in this lifetime."

"Well, you're just a paragon of virtue now, ain't you?  Don't suppose St. Ian would care to go in the back room and shoot some pool?  At the very least, we'd escape the noise."

"Billiards?"

"Um, yea, Ian.  Billiards.  You do know how to play, don't you?"

"Of course," Ian replied, slipping from the stool.  The room spun slightly, but he was steady on his feet.  More than enough experience with all sorts of poisons in his body to handle a little alcohol.  The fact that he'd never before had a choice in the matter made this experience all the sweeter.

"My bad," Frank said as he led the way.  "I forgot you must have a pool table of your own back at stately Wayne manor."

"Not at the manor house, but at the estate in England and the château in the Alps..."

****************************

"How good are you at this game?" Frank whispered, his eyes locked on the green felt as a blocky redhead lined up a shot on the eightball.

"I'm excellent," Ian replied, wondering why they were whispering.

The eightball dropped into the corner pocket and Frank slapped a fifty-dollar bill in the center of the table.  "Anyone care to make it interesting?"

The redhead who'd won the table stuck out a hand.  "Ryan Brady, and I'd be more than happy to take your money."

"I'm afraid you're gonna have to take it from him," Frank said, jerking a thumb in Ian's direction.  

"Not a problem," Ryan replied, his eyes widening as Ian shrugged off his sweatshirt and selected a cue from the rack on the wall.

"Your break."  Frank smiled, drifting back to stand beside Ian.  "Don't you think the shoulder holsters are a bit much?" he hissed.

"I was hot.  Besides, no one here will complain."  Pasting a 'cat playing with something soft, fuzzy and soon to be dead' grin on his face, Ian scanned the room.  Not a single eye held his for more than a second.  "See?"

"I'm gonna tell Robert you're a psycho."  

"Robert already knows I'm a psycho."

After a moment's thought, Frank nodded.  "True enough.  Win the money and I'll stop bitching."

"What are the rules?"

Frank was seized by a sudden coughing fit.  Waving off an irritated glance from Ryan, he pulled Ian into the back corner.  "You told me you knew how to play!  You told me you were 'excellent'!"

"Different game.  Why was the eightball the last one on the table?"

"Jeesh, Ian.  It's straight-up barroom pool!  What, are you like ten years old, you've never played a game of eightball?"

Crossing his arms, Ian leaned back against the wall.  "I'm thirty-three, not ten, and I'm sorry I lack your vast knowledge of the arts."

Brought up short, Frank nodded.  "Yea, okay.  You're right.  Listen up and I'll fill you in on the rules...  Hey!  Wait a minute, your records say you're thirty-five."

"They also say my name is 'Smith'."

Frank studied his beer for a moment.  "True," he said philosophically.  "Now listen up, because you've got a lot to learn..."

****************************

Ryan was good, almost running the table from the break.  Ian was better.  He was lining up his final shot, an easy bank on the eight, when a long low whistle broke his concentration

The girl stood in the doorway, well aware that every eye in the room was on her.  Pretty garbage wearing thigh-high boots and cocksucker lips, she was old enough to be legal but not old enough to vote.  Ian dismissed her with a glance, bending back over the table and ending the game with one quick shot.

"Thanks for the donation," Frank said, pushing past a stunned Ryan and collecting the money on the edge of the table.  "It will go to a good cause."

Crimson lips smiled, and the girl in the doorway headed straight for Ian.  He was the only one in the room who was surprised by the fact.

"You must be good," she said, her head tilted downward, copper-colored hair shining beneath the smoke-filtered light.  "Ryan almost never loses."

Ian didn't have to feign indifference.  She was what Irons would have classified as 'trash'.  Not that that would have prevented his master from bedding the girl, but she would never have been allowed to stay the night.  Playing in the dirt was one thing, sleeping in it was something else entirely.

Of course, she could have been the queen of the universe and it wouldn't have mattered.

She ran her hands down the cue he still held in a manner that was more pornographic than suggestive.  Ian was still searching for a polite means of saying 'Go away' when she looked up.

Emerald green eyes.  He'd always lost himself deep inside green eyes.  Green eyes so excruciatingly not Sara's it made him want to retch.

"Wanna dance?" green eyes asked.

"Why not."

With a pat on the back and a knowing wink, Frank said, "I think that's my cue to go home."

****************************

'Bloody Sunday'.  A very bad rendition of 'Bloody Sunday'.  Hardly dance music, but this wasn't like any dance he'd ever been taught.

The girl ground against him, her hands skimming down his biceps, her breasts pressed hard against his ribs.  He hadn't felt this much flesh against his bare skin... ever.  No matter how hard he scrubbed, he doubted the taint would wash off.  She didn't smell like Sara, she didn't feel like Sara, she couldn't be Sara no matter how desperately he wanted her to be.

But Sara would never be his.

Ian could feel her across the distance, twisting atop sweat drenched sheets.  The blade was in rare form tonight, the dreams washing through her, carrying her along on a wave of ecstasy.  When she screamed for a man that wasn't him, he let her fade away.

He didn't need Sara, he held green eyes in his arms

Two long strides and they were off the dance floor.  Ian slammed a booted foot against the emergency exit and the door swung open to dangle from a single hinge.  A shouted protest halted his progress, and Ian turned with a hungry grin.  Fighting would be better than fucking an imposter- all he needed was an excuse.

The bartender wasn't about to give him one.  Cowed eyes stared back at him, and the man held both his place and his tongue.  The girl was not so reticent. 

Red-tipped nails looped around his belt, urging him forward into the still, dark night.  With a guttural growl, Ian allowed himself to be led.  If this was his hell, he was going to revel in it.  Sara didn't want him.  Irons didn't want him.  When he was done with her, the girl wouldn't want him either. 

Green eyes- hard, bright and brittle under neon lights.

"Don't you want to know my name?"

"No."  Ian surged forward, falling into the sharp musky scent of sex and cigarettes and overripe flesh.

It would be so simple.  So easy.  Pin her to the ground.  Pound himself into her until the earth itself swallowed them up.  Fuck her raw within the warm safe confines of his own private hell.  And when the fire was done burning them out, burning them through, he'd look into green eyes...  

And she still.  

Wouldn't.  

Be.  

Sara.

It would be so simple.  So easy.  Shove her against the wall.  Wrap a hand around that fragile neck.  Pound his fist into her until the bones broke and the blood made good its escape.  And when he was done, he'd feed her to the river, the murky depths that would swallow her whole.  He'd look into green eyes as she drifted away...

And she still.

Wouldn't.

Be.

Sara.  

It would be so simple....

"Run."

"Hm?"  She groaned against his chest, too far gone to be afraid.

Ian put a fist to the brick wall beside her head.  Crack of bone, wet of blood, and now she knew enough to be scared.  "Run before I decide to chase you."

High heels against stained concrete, a staccato beat that faded away almost as quickly as the memory of her face.  The tightness in his chest had nothing to do with the girl.  Stupid to have believed otherwise.

Grinding his bloodied hand against the wall, Ian strove for a pain that didn't burn quite so bright, sear quite so deep.  What he found was Bodicia and no matter how hard he hit the wall, he wasn't going to stop her.  He saw Sara's eyes fly open, and then they were both lost....

_She was a broken thing long before he came to this cursed island.  Shattered by Rome with the first touch of whip, the first groan of pleasure from the centurions, it is the witchblade that grants her the illusion of life.  He gives her everything he has, everything he is, and he knows that it will never be enough.  _

_In the middle of a blood-soaked field, she rides him.  Screaming her release, her hatred, her challenge- some sick combination of all three that sets the carrion birds to wing.   No love, no fondness, no lust.  Just a vast aching nothingness that he can never fill no matter how hard he tries. It doesn't stop him from trying.  _

_Sated and panting, she rolls away from him.  He follows, just as he always does.  A tentative hand through crimson hair, and he's grateful when she doesn't shy away._

_"If we face the legion tomorrow, we will lose," he whispers.  "Everyone will die.  You will die."_

_Emerald green eyes that have seen too much.  They stare through him as she smiles.  "Good."_

Falling to his knees, Ian emptied the liquid contents of his stomach.  When the dry heaves released him from their grip, he rested his forehead against the cool stone and blinked back the tears.  His fault.  All his fault.  If there was one past he'd never wanted Sara to know, Bodicia was it.  The memories on the rooftop, his adolescent need to cling to a past where he still had a home...  He had brought this dream to her, laid it like a gift at her feet.  He had no one to blame but himself.

Ian wiped the vomit from his chin, tried to distract himself with the damage he had done to himself.  It was impossible to tell who had won his pointless battle with the wall.  His fingers were numb, white bone glinting through the raw meat that used to be his left hand.  The wall hadn't fared much better, a pile of stone fragments beside his knee mute testimony to the power of his insanity.

Foolishness.  Pure, self-indulgent foolishness.  Kenneth would be irate.  Which meant there was really no harm in giving the old man's anger just a bit more fodder.

Before he could reconsider, he was on his feet.  Irons couldn't have every pay phone in D.C. tapped.  Actually, he could.  But he probably didn't.  It shouldn't matter anyway.  He'd been sent away, Irons wasn't even looking for him.  And somehow he knew that wasn't true.

No change in his pocket, but the tip of his knife fit neatly into the base of the phone.  More change than he'd need, this was going to be a short conversation.

It felt good just to dial her number.

"Ian?"  Sleepy, disoriented.  Afraid.

"It wasn't always like that, Sara."

"Nottingham!"  From afraid to angry in the blink of an emerald green eye.

"It wasn't always bad.  _I_ wasn't always bad."  

He hung up the phone before she could reply.  Foolishness.  Pure, self-indulgent foolishness.

He hoped Irons choked on it.


	8. Ch. 8

[A/N- Yep, pokey again.  This chapter did not turn out as planned.  The FB stuff got added, and half of what I'd written got pushed to chapter 9.  Eh- so it goes.  As always, thanks for the feedback.  And nope- I probably don't have any other stories anyone would be interested in.  Hm- and I like the flashbacks, so you'll still be getting them.  Heck, this chapter wallows in FB. It also wallows in lots of violence, because I was in a mood.  On the plus side, we discover that I'd actually meant this story to have a plot!  Here it be- though someone actually guessed what it was quite a while back! Last note- I'll be switching this back to an 'R' rating next update, so look for it there. You can also sign up for e-mail updates on witchblade-fic.com  Hope you enjoy.] 

Chapter 8

Strange cars with government plates were parked in the driveway.  Something was very, very wrong.  Ian had known it as soon as the phone had rung, Frank's voice telling him to get over to the house.  He should have sensed it, he should have known.  Irons wouldn't have needed a phone.  Jameson shouldn't either.  He could taste his failure, bitter in the back of his throat.

Not slowing to knock, Ian stormed through the front door.  Dark suits turned at his approach, hands reaching for weapons.  His automatics were already out, targets locked.  A little more pressure and men would start dying.

"Hold it!  He's one of mine!"  Jameson sat hunched on the living room couch, tired and haggard and years older than he'd been the day before.

The suits stood down, not liking it when Ian didn't.  Only when he received a weary nod from Jameson did he holster his weapons.  

"Is he licensed to carry?" a dark suit in a red tie asked.  Ian could tell from his stance he was the senior man.  Fed.  Probably F.B.I.

"Shut up," Jameson snapped, waving for Ian to follow as he rose from the sofa made his way toward the study.  "He's in charge of my personal security.  I want him here more than I want you."

Ian could feel their eyes following him, suspicious and angry as he fell in behind his boss.  That was fine by him.  He didn't trust them either.

Pulling the door firmly shut behind him, he stood in the center of the room, impatiently waiting for Jameson to tell him what was going on.  The older man seemed in no hurry to do so.  Sitting silently behind his desk, he stared blankly at a silver framed photo.

"Ian, do you believe in fate?"

"I fight against it every day."

Jameson snorted a humorless laugh.  "I believe in fate, too.  I believe it's why you're here.  Someone took Jenny.  You are going to get her back."

The littlest one.  Of course.  Ignoring the first flush of heat beneath his skin, Ian bit back a pointless apology.  "What happened?"

"She was safe.  Perfectly safe.  A damn youth group trip to the movies.  Vacation Bible school, if you can believe it.  How fucked up is that?"  Robert buried his face in his hands, as if not looking at the world would make it go away.  

Ian could have told him that wasn't how the world worked.  Instead, he tamped down his mounting irritation and sidled closer to the desk.  "Robert, I need details if I'm going to help."

Robert didn't look up, but he took a deep breath and seemed to gather himself.  "They came out of the theatre and were walking back to the bus.  A van pulled up, the side door opened, and two men wearing ski masks grabbed her before anyone had time to move.  Bobby was up ahead with one of his friends, or they might of gotten him too.  According to the F.B.I. guys, it was well planned and executed and there's no doubt my kids were the target."

"Did they get a plate number on the van?"

"Yea.  The chaperones were on the ball.  Got a good description of the van, the full license plate, called 911 on a cell 10 seconds after it happened.   None of it helped.  Jenny just disappeared.  Gramaldi, the A.D. handling the case for the feds, told me the van came back stolen.  They think it was dumped somewhere almost as soon as they got out of the parking lot.  They still haven't found it, but it probably won't help when they do.  The consensus is these guys are pros."

"That's a good thing, Robert.  Professionals can be dealt with rationally."  Professionals meant Jenny wasn't dead.  Not yet.  Ian felt his jaw clench, shied away from the images of tiny bodies in shallow graves.  Not yet.  Not ever.  He's going to kill them slow and make them scream.

"Gramaldi said the same thing.  Ian?"  

"Ransom demands?"  He pretended it didn't hurt to ask, hurt to think.  Information was important now.  Information was life.

"They want half-a-million.  The call came in just after Frank called you.  The feds ran a trace, but no luck.  The voice was electronically distorted, but they're still working on it.  No other instructions, just the fact I have three days to gather the cash.  The only other lead we have is the possibility one of the kidnappers spoke Russian.  LeAnne Reyes, one of the chaperones, thought the driver of the van yelled 'hurry up' in Russian.   She wasn't sure, though.  Could hardly make out the voice at all, and besides, she's a Spanish teacher.  Russian isn't her strong suite."

Russians?  Russians could be good.  "Can you gather the money?"

Robert nodded, then opened his desk drawer and gingerly took out a folded sheet of paper and placed it in the center of the desk.  "I can get it.  Liquidate some assets.  But I don't think money is their main objective.  Susan was out shopping when the whole thing went down.  I called her, and when she ran out to the car to come home, this was waiting on the dashboard.  So far, only you, me, Susan and Frank know about it.  It hasn't been dusted for prints, so be careful."   

"There won't be any fingerprints," Ian replied, being careful anyway.  Quickly, he read over the note.  The X-12 smart bomb project.  That was a prize worthy of professionals.  

"Susan thinks we should tell the feds.  Frank thinks we should tell the feds to go fuck themselves.  I want to know what you think."

"The F.B.I. will shut you down as soon as they learn about this.  The X-12 is highest clearance.  They won't risk it.  Not for one child, not for a thousand.  Tell them nothing."

"Ian, you aren't cleared for that project.  You shouldn't even know about it."  Robert's eyes were dull as he stared at him, and if there was a hint of suspicion in his voice, Ian refused to hear it.

"I know everything about Am-Tech Air, Mr. Jameson.  I have since the first week I was hired.  Does that pose a problem?"  Ian locked his hands behind his back and dropped his head.  The children should have never been left vulnerable in the first place.  His responsibility.  His fault.  He deserved whatever blow Jameson dealt him.

A deep sigh and the faint squeak of leather as Robert leaned back in his chair.  "No, Ian.  It's no problem.  Hell, it's not even a surprise.  The problem is, I spent 20 years serving my country.  I'm not sure I can betray it and I know I can't lose my daughter.    Please stop staring at your God damn feet and tell me you can fix this."

Ian felt the shark's grin slide across his face.  "I can fix it.  If I can find them, I can fix it."

"You've got less than three days before I have to decide."

Irons would kill him- if he were lucky.  But Irons couldn't stop him.  Not in three days.  "I have the contacts, sir.  We have a satellite uplink at the main office.  By tonight, I should know something."

Robert looked at him for a long moment, then rubbed his hands together as if chilled.  "Do what you have to.  Get her back for me, Ian.  And if they've hurt her- in any way- I want you to bring me their heads on a fucking plate.  Can you do that for me?"

The fire began to pulse at the base of his skull.  He could do so much more than that.  "Of course, sir.  It will be my pleasure."

********************

Ian nodded brusquely to the shift commander and took a seat behind a remote terminal.  The room was all but deserted, just a skeleton crew trying hard not to stare at him.  "Clear the room," he called softly, and their sense of relief was palpable as the men rushed for the door.

It was the smile on his face that did it, the one that wasn't supposed to be there. A faint reflection of the anger, but one that immediately called his sanity into question.  He'd believed there were only two people on earth who could inspire that particular emotion, that particular smile.  The discovery he'd been wrong tilted his world on its axis.

He rested a hand on the keyboard, found it was shaking so hard he was worried he'd break something.  Closing his fist, he dug his nails into the meat of his palm and fought to focus.  She was just a little girl.  A month ago he hadn't even known she existed and wouldn't have cared if he had.  Human beings didn't come any more expendable.  Now he was planning the apocalypse he would throw in her name.

Irons and Sara and little Jenny Jameson.  His new holy trinity.  No matter what the wielder thought of him, it was proof he was more man than monster.  

When the memories rushed in, Ian was forced to admit it was proof of no such thing.

********************

_Poetry.  _

_"Is he going to live?"_

_"I think so," Dr. Immo replies as he smoothes down the bandages covering the left side of Irons' face.  "It was touch-and-go, but he made it through the night.  His constitution...  He should heal, Ian.  Given time, he should heal."_

_Violent, bloody poetry.  _

_"Who was responsible for the explosion?"_

_For the first time since he walked into the room, Immo meets his eyes.  "Now is not the time, Ian.  You're tired, you're angry, you just got back in the country.  Wait until Kenneth wakes up.  Let him decide how best to handle this."_

_An epic in crimson, an ode to pain.  He's going to carve it into their flesh, take his time doing it._

_"Don't make me repeat myself, Doctor."_

_Immo clears his throat, takes a half-step back.  "I don't know, Ian.  Security isn't my area.  If you want the details, ask Devain."  _

_So pale and so still.  Touch it and it will shatter like rotted ice.  This ... thing spread out helpless and weak across starched white sheets cannot be his master._

_Touch it he does.  Prove that it's not real.  The forbidden familiarity makes his breath hitch in his throat.  With infinite care, he runs his index finger along the ridges of the scar.  Circles within circles, flaring with the every pulse of his father's blood.  _

_The heat blossoms in the center of his chest, a low, simmering boil.  It's like nothing Ian has felt before and nothing he wants to feel again.   _

_"Devain," he murmurs, reaching up to brush pale hair back from an even paler face.  "He was in charge of your safety, wasn't he?  I told you I was ready.  Why didn't you let me come home?"_

_"Ian?"  Immo sounds worried, an unusual lapse._

_Ian looks up at him and smiles.  "I believe I'll have a talk with Mr. Devain."_

********************

_A memory of movement, a nothing shadow.  He takes the sentry with one swipe of a darkened blade and is gone before the body hits the ground.  _

_Years of training, of waiting, of tests and trials.  It all comes down to this.  His existence, crystallized in a single moment, and he knows he's a failure just as surely as he knows he doesn't care.  _

_The second guard, dispatched as easily as the first.  If Devain had been telling the truth, that leaves two more outside.  Ian has no doubts about Devain's honesty.  When the screams are that loud, you believe them._

_And a third man dies._

_Slower now, creeping forward.  He savors the moment, wanting to own it in the same way that Irons owns expensive cars and beautiful women and him._

_Sensei would be so disappointed._

_He snaps the last man's neck.  Quick.  Clean.  Silent.  Honoring his training instead of the fire that burns in his brain.  Of course, the guards had been no more than drones.  No autonomy, no culpability.  No satisfaction in their deaths.  _

_Ian's satisfaction will be found inside, and there will be nothing of honor about it._

_Sensei would learn to live with the disappointment._

_He avoids the hidden cameras, snips two wires on the security panel, and is in.  The katana returns to its sheath.  The shotgun takes its place.  Vulgar and ugly, it is a mockery of all he has been taught.  It is exactly what he wants, ruin and riot and blood splattered walls.  He's going to send a message that will never be forgotten._

_Two men awake, the last of the security team.  He can hear the faint murmur of their voices down the hallway to his left.  Laughing and unconcerned, they are... sloppy.  They are very fortunate they don't work for Irons._

_Ian eases the kitchen door open with the barrel of the shotgun and waits for the guards to notice him.  He can feel the smile on his lips, and wonders whether it is the smile or the weapon that puts the fear in their eyes.  He'll never know for sure, because the gun is bucking in his hands, booming like a cannon, and eight-gauge buckshot turns men into meat before he realizes he's pulled the trigger.  Noisy and messy and he fires three more rounds just to watch the bodies jerk. _

_So much for subtlety.  _

_He sprints to the main staircase, ramming home shells as thick as his thumb.  Takes the steps three at a time, and bedroom doors are just starting to open when he hits the landing.  The fury erupts and Ian Nottingham proceeds to elevate slaughter to an art form._

********************__

_Cautiously, Ian slips through the bedroom door.  It's been a week since his return, a week since his 'outburst', as Immo insists on calling it.  The fact that Irons hasn't summoned him until now could mean just about anything.  _

_Keeping his features expressionless, Ian settles in beside the door, his hands behind his back and his head down.  Irons takes no notice.  Propped up against half-a-dozen pillows, he flips through a stack of photographs and sips his morning coffee.  The only evidence he'd been injured is the pink flush of new skin and an arm that lays at his side like a dead weight._

_Within five minutes, Ian is bouncing on the balls of his feet.  Just enough to be noticeable.  Just enough to be annoying.  If Irons doesn't acknowledge him soon, he's going to start humming.    _

_"Stop that and come here."_

_Victory of a sort.  _

_"You've grown" Irons grants him a small smile.  It's genuine, it's rare, and no matter how much trouble he's in, it means everything will be okay._

_"I'm still not as tall as you are.  Not yet."  Tiny gibe, because he's home, because he can._

_"You will never be as tall as I am, Ian.  Though I must admit, this latest display of yours has left me..."  Irons holds one of the photos up to the light, squinting to make out the details.  "Is that the Chinese symbol for 'chaos' carved into his chest?"_

_Leaning in to look, Ian's a bit impressed by all of the blood.  He should have expected the bodies to drain out after he'd left them hanging from the stair rail like that.  "Yes, sir.  It seemed appropriate at the time."_

_"Appropriate?"  Irons lays the pictures out, one by one.  Lined up across the breakfast tray, they look like some sociopath's tarot reading.  The portents are not happy ones.  "'Excessive' would be a more apt term."  _

_"I'm sorry."_

_"One of these days, I really must teach you to lie.  You do it so badly."  The words are said fondly, the touch on his shoulder light.  It is no less a command, and Ian goes to his knees beside the bed, his stomach clenching in anticipation.  Irons in a good mood can be more dangerous than Irons enraged._

_A quirk of thin lips, as if Kenneth can read his every thought.  Which he can.  Ian ducks his head, instantly submissive and very glad he hadn't gone through with the humming.  He can't help but flinch when those tapered fingers run through his hair, releasing it from the leather bands that tie it back.  Irons takes no offense, just continues stroking until Ian relaxes, resting his cheek against cool sheets and making a mental list of people he can chop into tiny bits on the off chance that he might earn **this** one more time before he dies._

_"Surely such artless carnage is not what I sent you to Japan to master?"  Softly purred, prelude to the kill.  It's Irons' favorite question- the one with no correct answer.  _

_Ian doesn't rise to the bait.  He focuses on the irony, the fact that silence sounds defiant.  One more oxymoron in his life, it joins a growing collection.  _

_No answer is also a wrong answer.  The hand knots in his hair, and with one ruthless twist his throat is exposed.  Soft underbelly.  Bug beneath a rock._

_"Emotion is a weakness, young Nottingham.  Discipline is your only defense."_

_The fingers are around his throat now, leaving no air for him to breathe.  It doesn't matter, not as long as he has his impossible truths.  Irons cares.  About him.  Irons cannot die.  Ever.  The wielder will come.  And he will serve them both.  _

_Ian opens his eyes to watch the final irony.  It's almost funny, but laughter requires oxygen he doesn't have.  Red haze and the room fading to black and Irons' face the only thing he sees, Irons' voice the only thing he hears.  "The wrath of God is mine to dispense, Ian.  Don't forget again."_

_Gasping, choking, down on all fours.  Ian huddles in on himself and breathes.  Air in his throat like sandpaper over broken glass and he wipes the snot from his nose, feeling like he's eight instead of eighteen.   Which had undoubtedly been the point of this particular lesson._

_"I believe it is time you returned home," Irons says, rubbing absently at the back of Ian's neck as the younger man attempts to straighten up.  "All you have left to learn, I will teach you."_

_It's all good and it's all right and the only thing he regrets is that he didn't go with the humming option in the first place._

********************

"Shift commander said you were still here."  

Ian looked up from the monitor, eyes widening in surprise.  It wasn't often someone entered a room without him noticing.  "Frank," he acknowledged, giving a brief nod.

"What're you up to?"    

"Considering the merits of patricide."  Kenneth's face stared back at him from the screen, all seeing and all knowing, even when filtered through a thousand miles of empty space.  That alone was worthy of hatred.  Ian didn't bother shutting down the connection.  This was a war he was going to lose, but he wanted someone to know he'd fought it.  

"Smug looking bastard," Frank commented as he rolled a chair over and straddled it. "I hope that's not daddy dearest?"

"So do I."

Frank pulled two cigars out of his breast pocket, muttering "Ooh!  Sounds like a soap opera.  Do tell," as he lit one.

Ian shrugged and took the proffered smoke.  "The man is the king of lies.  I've learned it's best not to ask."

"Thought the devil was the king of lies?"

"You haven't met Kenneth."  Ian sputtered on the smoke and burst out coughing.

"Pure Cuban tobacco, Ian.  Don't waste it."  Spinning his chair around, Frank kicked his feet up on a desk, his gaze drifting around the room.

"I've breathed teargas that tasted better."

"Sorry, kid.  All out of teargas.  So...  I don't suppose this is even remotely connected to getting Jenny back?"

"I did something foolish last night.  There was no good reason for it, but I did it anyway," Ian said by way of reply.

"You didn't hurt that girl, did you?"  Frank's voice was flat and careful, but he was staring at Ian's bandaged left hand like it wasn't the first time he'd wanted to ask the question.

"Who?  Oh... no.  No, I don't think so.  I made a phone call."

"Hm..."  Frank nodded, managing to not quite sound relieved.

"I did something foolish again today.  Now I'm waiting to see if I had a good reason."  Reaching out to the computer screen, Ian lazily trailed a finger down the center of the flickering image.  "Won't matter, of course.  He'll come regardless- and he finds it offensive when I've been foolish."

"Fuck your pretend dad, Ian!  Your old man shows up, I'll kick his ass.  This isn't about him, it's about Jenny."

Ian dropped his hand.  "I know it is, Frank.  She's my good reason."

Frank engrossed himself in blowing a smoke ring.  "Yea, well...  Just checking.  And you know I got your back.  Right?"

"You and Robert both.  I know.  And if it makes any difference, if he orders me to kill you, I'll say 'no'."

"Gee Ian, that's real big of you."  Frank smirked.  "Nicest thing anyone's said to me all week."

"I'll probably end up doing it anyway," Ian replied, just before he put his fist through the monitor.  With an angry electric hiss, the cracked screen went black.

Frank paled, but forced a smile that wasn't a grimace.  "What's sad is it's still the nicest thing anyone's said to me all week."

Ian shook his head and flicked away a fragment of glass.  "Why are you here, Frank?  You should be home with Robert and the family."

"Thought you might like the company.  You know, in case you needed an excuse to break expensive computer equipment or soliloquize about your paternity or not kill anybody who's actually on our side or something."

Ian shot him a look and smashed the still smoldering cigar in his hand.  Both men pretended not to notice the smell of burning flesh. 

"And of course, the watch commander did call Bobby," Frank continued, as if that had been his intent all along.  "Charlie said you came down here four hours ago, scared the shit out of all the boys, and have been holed up ever since.  I believe the words 'postal', 'unstable', and 'homicidal maniac' might have been bandied about."

"Where would he get an idea like that?"  Unleashing the smile full force, Ian blew the ash out of the palm of his hand.

"Beats me.  Guy's obviously delusional.  I mean, not like you're planning on killing somebody, are you?

"Of course not, Frank.  I'm planning on killing a whole lot of somebodies."

"And that's gonna make you feel better?"

"It always has before."

Frank hissed out a slow steady stream of smoke, watching as the blue cloud rose toward the lights. With a regretful sigh, he dropped the cigar to the floor and pulled a .38 S&W from a holster at the back of his waistband.  Placing it carefully on the desk beside the broken monitor, he gave Ian a smile that matched his own.  "Sounds like a good plan.  Can I come?"


	9. Ch 9

A/N: As always- thanks much for the feedback- and I can't believe someone actually went and read my DOOL fic!  That was flattering, as soaps and WB have little in common!  Ahem- now to comments...  As you've probably noticed, I've sucked with updates.  No excuse other than the fact I've been a bit disenchanted with the direction of the show (even before it was cancelled).  I've been off playing in other fandoms.  BUT- I will finish 'Prodigal Son'.  Seriously, I HATE unfinished fics.  I figure I have a 'contract' with the readers.  So, I may not be speedy but I won't stop until it's done.  Yes, that is more a threat than a promise.  And now, on with the 'show'....

Chapter 9

"Illya?  This is a surprise."  Kenneth Irons leaned back in his chair, quirking a perfectly sculpted brow.  The effect was wasted upon the speakerphone, but protocol had been satisfied.  "I assume the weather in Moscow is as pleasant as ever?"

"I...  I've returned stateside, Mr. Irons.  Vorschlag business, you know." 

No, Kenneth had not known.  But he should have guessed.  What had his wayward child been up to now?

"Nottingham has been in contact with you."  It was not a question, but he could hear Petronin squirming as he attempted to formulate a response that wouldn't get him killed.  Kenneth almost sympathized.  Caught between Ian's temper and his own capriciousness, Petronin's chances of survival were somewhat less than nonexistent.  A shame, really.  Illya had been an effective operative for many years.

"You did order that any contact with Mr. Nottingham be reported to you."  

Jarred from his musings by a man he had already dismissed as deceased, Kenneth chose to be gracious.  "And you have my thanks for doing so, Illya.  What is it that Ian requires?"

"He contacted me through secure channels and was quite adamant that his inquiries be kept confidential.  _Quite_ adamant."  Despite the heavily accented English, Petronin's fear bled across the phone line.

"Yes, I'm sure he was,"  Kenneth replied, making no attempt to hide his amusement.  Ian had always been a quick study and he'd learned intimidation at the feet of the master.  

A muffled string of Russian curses could be heard in the background and then Illya cleared his throat.  "Mr. Nottingham might take offense if I were to discuss the particulars of his... request."

"Then I advise you not to mention our conversation to him."  Leaning forward, Kenneth began jotting down a list of possible replacements for Illya's position.

"If you think that's best..."

Irons rolled his eyes.  Petronin had enough sense not to ask why he was investigating his second in command, but it was painfully clear that he wanted to.  For a native born Russian, the man's thought patterns lacked all subtly.  Ian was going to eat him alive.

"What is it that Ian wants?" he snapped, Petronin's grace period coming to an abrupt end.

"Information on a kidnap and extortion ring," Petronin responded promptly.  "Exclusively a Russian operation.  That's why I was brought in."  

Kenneth thought it unlikely that Ian would be branching out into kidnapping.  Possible, but unlikely.  Had he hired out to the family of a victim?  More likely, it was some Sara Pezzini inspired quest for nobility.  In either case, the boy should have known better.  "Have you issued your report to him?"

"No sir.  I'm supposed to meet with him tonight at midnight.  I'm to bring the files with me."

"I want a copy of those files immediately and a full report on all of your contacts with Nottingham.  Unless you hear otherwise from me, follow Ian's instructions to the letter.  Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, but...  He wants me to meet him alone.  The location is an unused warehouse just off the Potomac.  I really think it might be best if I were to take a few men...."

"Petronin, it won't matter if you take a hundred men.  If Ian decides to kill you, he will.  Accept that and move on."  The man was a dolt, perhaps even fool enough to ignore Kenneth's own instructions.  There was considerable comfort in the fact that Ian would slit the man's throat for it.  Even when he was being recalcitrant, Ian served his master's will.

A knock on the door drew Kenneth's attention as Illya continued babbling inanely about his own safety.  With a wave of his hand, he motioned the doctor into his office.

"Very well," Kenneth said, cutting Petronin off mid-sentence.  "I will expect a full report from you as soon as the meeting is concluded."  He was already making plans as he shut down the connection.

"You are looking rather pleased with yourself," Dr. Immo said, placing his medical bag on the desk.

Rising from his chair, Kenneth approached the glass wall behind him.  Peering down at his city, his face hidden from the doctor, he indulged in a genuine grin.  "Ian is coming home."

"Congratulations," Immo replied.  "How did you convince him to return?  The understanding you've come to with Ms. Pezzini?"

When Irons turned back to face the room, the smile was gone.  "There will be no 'understanding' with regard to Ian.  Not with Sara Pezzini or anyone else."

"Of course not, Kenneth.  I only meant...  I am glad he is returning."

Kenneth nodded his forgiveness and returned to his desk.  He was sorely tempted to forgo this routine check-up in order to pursue Ian's machinations with the mainframe.  Knowing that the system had been accessed in order to contact Petronin made it much easier to trace back Ian's actions.  The capital was not a large city.  It was not even a city at all.  Tapping at his keyboard, he began pulling up a listing of all facilities with satellite uplink capabilities.  

"Kenneth?  A moment of your time, please?"

With poor grace, he acquiesced.  He was counting the wasted seconds as Immo tightened the blood pressure cuff around his arm.

"How did you talk him into coming back?" Immo asked, unwilling to let the issue drop.

"Ian will follow my orders, doctor.  The amount of persuasion required to see that he does is a moot point."

Kenneth watched with some curiosity as Immo attempted to keep his opinion to himself.  The effort proved as futile as Ian's flight would end up being.

"Do you even know where he is?"

"Of course.  I will find him in D.C."

The doctor sighed and shook his head.  "Your blood pressure is up."

"I wonder why?"  

Immo took the hint and began packing his bag, though he was obviously not done with the discussion.  "Have you considered the possibility that it would be best to allow him to return on his own?"

"It would be best if he had never left.  But he did.  Now I want him back.  The discussion is now closed."

Pausing in the doorway, Immo risked one last comment.  "Ian's a smart boy, Kenneth.  What makes you so sure he'll be found?"

"Because he wants to be."  

His second genuine smile in one day.  Kenneth decided it must be a new record.

************

Ian pulled the GTO to the curb and cut the engine, the dying echo of three hundred and thirty five horses coaxing a grin. American cars did have a certain brutish appeal, even if this one wouldn't have normally been his first choice.  Glancing down at the baseball bat on the floorboard, his smile broadened.  Clearly, it was an omen.  Not only did a god exist, it was sending him gifts.  Who was he to refuse a gift from God?

Claiming his prize, Ian slung his gym bag over his shoulder and slipped from the car.  He stalked into the shadows, seeking the knife's edge between desire and spasm.  The concrete canyons of the warehouse district offered him up crumbled asphalt, fetid air, and the whispered promises of outrage.  If he didn't kill something soon, he might start whispering back.

Kenneth would have silenced the voices.  Sara would have drowned them out.  Jenny....  Jenny made the voices scream, so he tried not to think of her at all.  Not that it mattered.  Irons and Sara were more than capable of destroying him without any outside help.

Jenny had three days, but it was unlikely Irons would give him that long.  If Illya hadn't betrayed him, Ian figured he'd have until sometime Tuesday.  If Illya had betrayed him....

Frank would counsel looking on the bright side of things.  Perhaps Irons would bring Sara with him when he came?  There was little doubt the two reached an accord.  If either had died, he would have known.   An alliance of some sort was the only other option.

Ian struggled to grasp that mental picture.  Kenneth and Sara together, walking up to him wearing matching smiles.  Irons would be in an impeccable linen suit, the same shade of gray as his soul.  Sara... jeans, leather, and just enough flesh to make him hard.  No, the pieces of that puzzle refused to fit together.  But of course, add the missing piece, and the picture became all too clear.

He'd stand in the middle, offer himself up.  With laughing eyes and razored words, they'd rip him open, strip him bare.  Take his honor, his pride, his self-respect.  When they were done with him, there'd be nothing left but skin.  Then one of them would take that too, and the only mystery surrounding any of it was which one.  

It would be just like old times.

With a rough shake of his head, Ian focused on what he could control.  He swung the bat, testing its heft.  'Louisville Slugger'.  An ignoble name for a weapon of mass destruction.  He re-christened it 'Excalibur' and wondered how many people he could bash in the head before it broke.  With any luck, he'd find out tonight.  It was important that it happened tonight.  Tomorrow might be too late.  

It was already too late, but there was no sense dwelling on that.  

Ian swung again, stretching high to reach the streetlight.  He desperately needed to watch something break that wasn't him.  The satisfaction he felt when the glass rained down around him would have frightened anyone sane.  Ian simply admired the way the blood oozed from the cut on his cheek and wondered if it was too late to invest in a heroin addiction.  Most likely, it was.

_Fuck_.  He borrowed the word from Frank.  Kenneth would be appalled, but he was going to indulge in bad habits while he still had the chance.

A quick check of his watch showed two hours left before the meeting.  The rendezvous was less than eight blocks away.  Too much time with nothing to do but think, but if he'd sat in the office for one more second, Frank would have been beneath the dirt and Robert would have been very displeased.  

Irons was right- friends were a liability.  He'd been careful to avoid them ever since the Black Dragons.  His friends.  The ones he'd buried.  The ones he'd killed.

Irons was always right.  It was not an endearing trait.

Clenching his jaw, Ian turned left at the next corner and lengthened his stride.  He'd burn off some excess energy, circle ground zero.  It was simply good form to know the lay of the land.  

His rubber soled boots made no sound as he ghosted through the garbage-strewn alleys.  There was nothing alive, save for the rats that skittered out of his path.  Maybe Illya would come alone.  Maybe he hadn't alerted Irons.  And maybe Sara really liked him but was just too shy to admit it.

If Ian was going to live in a fantasy land, he chose to make it a pleasurable one.

Half an hour and three miles later, he would have sworn he was the last man on earth.  It was time to hunker down and wait.  With a burst of speed, Ian leapt up to snag the bottom rung of a convenient fire escape.  As he slithered over the roof's edge, he couldn't help a feeling of nostalgia.  Had Sara been impressed by that sniper he'd so neatly dispatched for her?  Had the decorative touch with the rifle been too much?  He'd have to remember to ask her the next time they talked.  

Quiver in his belly at the thought.  Desire or fear or both.  The fact that Kenneth evoked the same response was just one more thing he refused to think about.

_Fuck_.  It was a good word.  Ian was going to miss it.

His sense of direction hadn't failed him.  The warehouse where they were to meet was two buildings over, he wouldn't need to return to the ground to reach it.  Settling in, Ian awaited the sign of his betrayal.  It took longer than he'd expected.  Forty five minutes passed before the van pulled up, half a dozen black-clad men bursting from the rear doors.  If Ian had ever believed in the fantasy, he would have mourned it.  

He put Excalibur to work instead.

************

Illya Petronin pulled his overcoat more tightly around himself in the too warm summer air. The sodden wool-silk blend clung to his body like a funeral shroud, doing nothing to improve his spirits.  He hated this country, he hated its capital city, and more than anything else, he hated Kenneth Irons and his misbegotten spawn.  He should have stayed in Russia.  Granted the food was terrible and there were any number people there who would like to see him dead, but none of them actually had the ability to make it happen.  Irons and his rabid puppy could, without so much as blinking an eye.  The situation was intolerable.

He punched the alarm on his Mercedes, noting with inordinate satisfaction that it was _not_ American made, and set off briskly for the warehouse entrance.  'Cronus Imports' faded red letters proclaimed.  Nottingham must be feeling rebellious these days.  It did not bode well.

Illya cringed as the heavy metal door screeched open, the sound echoing through the cavernous room and putting disgruntled pigeons to flight.  Handcrafted leather loafers, also not America made, waded through the offal of animals and humans alike.  It was almost enough to make him grateful that none of the lights seemed to work.  Miserable country filled with miserable people.  He would flee home to Mother Russia in the morning and never return here again.

Pausing in the center of the deserted warehouse, Illya peered into the building's shadowed corners.  The feeble glow of the streetlights penetrated the open doorway but did little to dispel the darkness.  No sign of Nottingham, no sign of anyone.  

"I have the information you requested."  His voice sounded thin, even to his own ears.  Gathering his courage, he shouted out more loudly.  Nothing shouted back.  Wavering between irritated and relieved, he checked the faint glow of his watch.   Five after midnight, and a Tag Heuer was never wrong.  He could hardly be blamed for the fact Nottingham hadn't showed.  Illya decided to be relieved.

The whir of displaced air froze his smug smile in place.  A pigeon.  Please?  S_weet Mary, mother of God, all my many sins repented in exchange for one winged rat._

"Did you come alone?"  The voice was smooth and low and... amused.  It was not a pigeon.

_Fuck you, Mary.  _Illya turned around slowly, reluctant to have his eyes confirm what his ears had already made plain.  His chest heaving, blood pounding, he told himself he was safe.  His men were in place.  He was valuable to important people.  Nottingham would never dare...

Hard and dark and hungry, it coiled in the shadows like a son of Beliel at play.  His heart seized as Illya Petronin recognized the face of his death.  

White teeth flashed in a predator's grin.  "Did you come alone?"

Mute nod, his throat too tight to push out words.  Illya held the thin file up, an offering with which he'd buy his life.  Nottingham didn't accept.

"I asked you a question, Illya.  I expect the courtesy of an answer."

In a silent glide across littered concrete, the beast began to circle.  Illya felt the brush of heated breath against his ear, the satin smooth taunt of leather across the back of his neck.  "Alone," he choked out.  "Yes.  Just as you ordered, Mr. Nottingham."

"Very good, Illya.  I knew I could trust you."  Amused and now dismissive, Nottingham plucked the folder from his hands.  "Mr. Irons knows nothing of this?"

"No!  No, of course not."  The words were too vehement, he was shaking his head too hard!  Divert, delay, dissemble.  "Those are dangerous men you seek.  You will need my help to take them on."  Where the hell were his men?

"Did you discover their current residence?"

Illya managed an ingratiating smile.  He could make this work.  "Yes, my people are very skilled.  Everything you asked for, it's in the file."

"Then I will not need your help."  Nottingham smiled back. 

"The hostages died!"  He threw it out like a challenge.  God alone understood what Nottingham was up to, but this was the last chance he'd have for a reprieve.  "Their parents either paid up and kept silent, or the children died!  Mr. Nottingham, these men have no scruples, no qualms.  In the one instance the F.B.I. was called in, they found the children just in time to see the explosives go off.  There wasn't enough left to bury!"    

That caused Nottingham pause, and Illya knew the game was far from over.  If he could just walk out of this building alive...

"The residence is wired?"

He fed Nottingham an encouraging nod.  "We aren't certain.  Not yet.  But based on prior cases, it is likely.  You will need a team if a rescue is your goal."  Too wise to ask questions, that could come later.  But Nottingham was working for someone, and Irons would gladly pay to discover the particulars.  Illya bit down on a smirk.  Ian Nottingham was going to be brought down, and it would be at the hands of a child.  Oh, how he relished the opportunity to see Irons' brat scream.  Mother Russia could wait.

Broad shoulders, backlit by the light from the door.  Illya watched as they wilted and Nottingham gave vent to a silent sigh.  "You're right.  I'll need a man I can trust."

Still nodding, Illya began edging toward the door.  Nottingham was a stupid bastard and he would pay for his actions this night.  Irons would see to it, and Illya would be there to watch.  The sweet promise of that day was almost enough to overshadow the fear that blossomed when Nottingham's hand crashed down on his shoulder.

"It's just too bad for you that you're not that man."

Freedom was a mere ten yards away.  He could see it in the gleaming steel of the Mercedes, the quiet patter of the rain.  A little further, Mary.  It wasn't so much for an old man to ask.

The blinding pain tore through him like the first stage of a heart attack, and Illya clutched at his chest, intent on making it stop.  His lungs refused to work, bright pink blood spattering across his hand when he coughed.

"Did my father have any words for me?"

Nottingham stared at him, open and curious.  Illya half expected to be offered a cup of tea and a biscuit, and then he realized he was on his knees.  Dirt and rat droppings marred black Armani, so he brushed ineffectively at his pants.  He would have fallen over then if not for the strong grip that steadied him.  When he glanced up to give thanks, there was something very wrong with the young man's smile.

"What happened?"  The words mingled with the blood, drenched the front of the youngster's jacket.  Distant recognition that there was more blood there than one body could hold.  Confusion over how that could be.  Opening his mouth to ask, Illya Petronin fought for another breath of air.  

And lost.

************

"What happened?"  The words wheezed out, barely discernable.  

"You died," Ian replied, though it was too later to matter.  When he took his hand away, the body slumped bonelessly to the floor.  It was a sad death for a good Armani suit.

Grabbing Petronin by the tie, he dragged the body into the far corner, tucking it behind the trash bin where the other six had waited.  Digging a heavy flashlight out of his gym bag, Ian leaned against the wall and leafed through the file.  Petronin hadn't been lying about the explosives even if he had been lying about everything else.  "Fuck."  He said it aloud.  It was warranted.

A few sharp blows with the flashlight served to relieve some of his frustration.  As an added benefit, Petronin could no longer be identified by his dental records.  Briefly, he considered freeing the remnants of Excalibur from its new home inside an unknown's chest cavity, then decided a Viking funeral was more apropos.  Three heads had been one more than he'd thought it would last.  The weapon had earned its rest.  Setting the timer on the C-4, he started for the door.  The gray Mercedes pulled out of the parking lot just as the building blew.  

Arson.  It was the sloppy assassin's best friend.  

Ian flipped open his cell phone, already oblivious to the flames that streaked the sky.  "Frank?"

"Who is it?"  The sing-song voice cackled maniacally across the scrambled line.  

Ian groaned into the receiver.  Who'd have believed Frank could give Sara lessons in pissy?  "My contact proved useful.  Do you have the men standing by?"

"I'm not quite the retard you think I am, Ian.  The boys are ready and rare'n to go.  Jesse's still gathering some equipment, but other than that, just tell me when and where."

Ian rattled off the address and added a little to the list of supplies he wanted on hand.  Explosives changed things and not in a good way.

"Shit, kid.  Are we planning on laying siege to the place?  I thought you were gonna make like Batman and fly in through the skylights."

"I don't even know if the place has skylights, Frank.  That's why I want a copy of the floor plans and security specs.  Jenny's safety is my priority.  Remember?"

"Yea, I remember.  I just wasn't sure you would.  You looked pretty pissed off back at the office.  Thought you were gonna get biblical on somebody's ass."

"I intend to.  Once Jenny's out of there, I'm going to smite the fuck out of every asshole in that house."  The slang felt awkward on his tongue, but he'd improve with practice and the tinny echo of Frank's laughter told him his effort had been appreciated.

"That's my boy.  Ian, you're the son I never wanted.  Before I'm done with you, you'll be chew'n tobacco and nailing anything with tits."

"The world is grateful you never reproduced and I don't need another father figure, Frank." 

"The father figure you've got sucks butt."

"I'll relay your regards the next time I see him, and I'm very much hoping that's no time soon."  Ian shook his head and sighed.  If Kenneth ever met Frank, it was going to end very badly for all concerned. 

"Anybody ever tell you that you worry too much?"

"No one who lived to see old age.  I'm serious, Frank.  I need to make this happen tonight.  If it doesn't...  It might be better to call in the feds."

There was a long pause before Frank replied.  "I guess we could do that.  If you think it's safer for Jenny...."

Ian didn't, but it was definitely safer for him.  Please, just let the house not be wired, let the security system be stock.  Let this be done tonight.  "Be ready for my call," was all he said.

"We will be, you can count on me."  A hint of accusation in that, but Ian ignored it because it was deserved.  

"I know.  Just stay sharp.  The feds had a shadow waiting for me when I left Am-Tech.  They might have put someone on you as well.  That's interference I don't want.  Not now."

"Damn.  You had a stalker problem?"  Frank snorted.  "We aren't going to have to try and explain a missing F.B.I. guy, are we?"

"No.  He was watching my car, so I took a different one.  Nothing can be traced back to Am-Tech."

"Discretion, Ian?  From you?  I'm almost disappointed.  Your psychoses have become my favorite form of entertainment."

"I'll try to do better in the future."  Ian allowed himself a grin as he pulled to the side of the road to let a fire truck rush past.

"See that you do.  Where are you now, anyway?"

"Looking to liberate another car.  Something in red, I'm setting a theme."

"Viva la revolution.  And that really didn't answer my question."

"No, it really didn't."

"Prick," Frank muttered, loud enough to be heard, soft enough to deny.  "Is that the sound of sirens in the background?"

"Probably.  I believe there was an accident.  Then there was a fire.  You know how old buildings burn."

"Yea, spontaneous combustion's a bitch.  Anyone die?"

"No one important."  

"I'm starting to find you entertaining again," Frank said, chortling like a deranged chimp.  It left Ian wondering whether he was the only psychopath in Jameson's employ. 

"I live to serve," he replied, which was a lot closer to the truth than he wanted Frank to know.  

"Couldn't tell it by me.  Hell, I thought you were gonna blow me off.  I'm surprised you called for back up."

"I needed a man I could trust."

"Hm, and you picked me?  Must not have had many options."

"One other, but he was no one important."

Frank had to think about that one for a moment before he snickered.  "Watch your ass, kid.  We'll be there when you call."  And then he was gone.

Slumping down in the seat, Ian began to relax.  Gentrified brownstones interspersed with gleaming steel office buildings rose up around him.  The Mercedes was no longer remarkable and the odds of finding something to replace it with had risen sharply.  No matter how critical the need for speed, he was not parking Petronin's car anywhere near his ultimate target.  Irons already had enough of an edge.

All things considered, he wished he'd killed Petronin more slowly.

************

The Jaguar was midnight blue instead of red, but other than that, he had no room for complaint.  Ian pushed the pedal to the floor and sank back into thick leather upholstery.  The engine hummed, all unleashed power and sneering attitude.  Sweet car.  Maybe he could guilt Irons into buying him one.  It took a considerable effort to evoke guilt in Kenneth, but Ian had the unpleasant feeling he was going to get the opportunity.  Not even a Jaguar would be worth that.

When the speedometer hit one hundred and thirty, the drive began to feel suspiciously like running.  To something or from something, he wasn't exactly sure.  In either case, it would be better if he simply turned around now.  He could make New York in four hours and the prodigal returned always warranted the fatted calf.  A worthless slave dragged back by his heels- what was that worth?  It was worth not thinking about.

He could keep driving, hit I-95 and follow the coast until he ran out of road.  The Florida Keys were supposed to be nice and it would be years before Irons would think to look for him there.  He'd find a little island, drink cold beer, and gawk at pretty girls who didn't hate him.  The Jag could be parked on a beach in time to watch the sun lose itself beneath shimmering waves.  If the urge struck, Ian would be free to join it.  

He was on the Fairfax exit ramp before a decision had been made.  Downshifting into fourth, he fishtailed on the wet cement as he tried to convince himself that Jenny would be just as safe left in the capable hands of the F.B.I.  Ian's presence was not required for this postmodern fairytale's happy ending.  After all, didn't beautiful little girls come pre-equipped with their own guardian angels?  

Unfortunately, self-delusion was not an Irons approved sin.  Ian knew too well that beauty dies and angels fall.  The sacraments he honored had been written by vengeful gods.  Vengeance, he could do.  Running, he couldn't.  

Besides, the only girl he wanted to gawk didn't live anywhere near Florida and she'd beat him to death if he ever called her a girl.

_Fuck, _again.  It really was an all purpose expletive.  Ian tried to imagine Irons' face the first time he used it in his presence.  Very bad idea.

He was sweating by the time he rolled past the entry to the gated community.  An alert looking security guard eyed him as he went by.  Not even the Jag would buy him a visit, not without being cleared by a resident.  

Grinding his teeth together, Ian kept going until he found a neighborhood that was not quite as security conscious.  He doubted the Jaguar would raise any suspicions left there and even if it did, nothing would tie it to his target.  It would have to suffice.  

Gym bag over his shoulder, Ian trotted down the sidewalk.  He might not be inconspicuous, but he was fast.  The gated community soon had an unwelcome visitor and no one would be the wiser until the bodies started to bleed.

  



End file.
